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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26623204">You Should Know</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomato/pseuds/Phantomato'>Phantomato</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1960s, 1970s, Alternate Universe, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hermione is born in the 30s, Horcruxes, Tom’s grand tour of the continent, no time travel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:35:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>74,501</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26623204</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomato/pseuds/Phantomato</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione, born in 1934 and Minerva McGonagall’s best friend, meets Tom Riddle, the boy whose scores were always just better than hers, at a wedding in the summer of 1961. She’s comfortable with what she wants from him, but he’s about to enter the next stage of his plan to take over the Wizarding world and test the limits of her acceptance.</p><p>AU where Hermione and Tom are contemporaries, but meet as adults during his rise to power. Older characters, not a darkfic, HEA.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle | Voldemort</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>252</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>492</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Pensieve</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Diggory Wedding</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story is now complete. I really enjoyed the process of writing it, and I hope you enjoy reading it.</p><p>I didn’t know where I was heading with this story when I started it, but now that we’re through, I can suggest that you give YSK a chance if you want to read a soft, introspective take on tomione with older characters. There’s some fluff, smut, humor, and social commentary, and there’s no explicit violence. It’s not the most common way to represent the pairing, but I hope you give it a try if you’re into the two characters, all the same.</p><p>—</p><p>Original author’s note:</p><p>I’m excited to share this! I’m trying to cover a few things here: Tom’s more relatable flaws, the social/cultural obstacles to Tom’s rise to power, and a Hermione who grew up without babysitting her friends. They’re also both solidly into adulthood in this, with a much reduced age gap as compared to canon, which will hopefully give me space to play with something other than the usual power dynamics for this pairing.</p><p>Tom is still Voldemort in this fic and does all of the terrible things Voldemort does, but I have no plans to glory in his depravity. This isn’t supposed to be a dark fic, so if you want a really domineering, evil Tom, look elsewhere! The first few chapters, at least, are downright fluffy compared to what’s normal for the pair. </p><p>Tom thinks of himself as Voldemort, and Hermione thinks of him as Tom, so I use those names to indicate whose perspective is governing a scene. </p><p>Let me know what you think!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Hester’s guest list is incredible, Hermione,” Minerva McGonagall observed. She and Hermione Granger were standing towards the edge of the ballroom in Selwyn manor where Hester Selwyn, now Hester Diggory, was holding her wedding reception. The event had at least 500 people in attendance.</p><p>Hermione laughed lightly in response. “We’re about the only Gryffs here, but I suppose that isn’t surprising when a Ravenclaw Selwyn marries into the Hufflepuff Diggory family. Selwyns are about evenly split between Ravenclaw and Slytherin, yeah?”</p><p>“Yes. Far too many snakes here for my taste,” Minerva sniffed. “But did you notice, over there by the bar?” Minerva gestured broadly with her wineglass, and Hermione winced at her friend’s complete lack of subtlety. In the direction her friend indicated, Hermione saw a man about a decade older than herself, likely in his mid-thirties, wearing well-tailored black silk brocade dress robes. He carried himself with an air of nonchalance that Hermione suspected was anything but, and his look of bored indifference seemed well-honed. He was conversing with Edmund Lestrange, also about a decade their senior, who was throwing quite animated glares around the room.</p><p>“What about him? He’s clearly a snake, but not one I recognize.”</p><p>“Hermione, that’s <i>Tom Riddle</i>.”</p><p>“Oh,” Hermione breathed. “Tom Riddle.”</p><p>Riddle was eight years older than both Hermione and Minerva, and their time at Hogwarts had not overlapped. When they started, though, the older students had remembered him keenly. In their later years, as Hermione academically distinguished herself on her numerous OWLs and NEWTs, he had been the singular point of comparison for her performance—to which she often did not quite live up, in her professors’ estimation. It still rankled.</p><p>“You know, the girls above us said he was the most handsome boy to ever attend Hogwarts.” Minerva took a sip of her wine and contemplated. “He’s not bad-looking.” Another pause. “Certainly aged better than Lestrange, there, who is looking quite puffy. No wonder he’s so insecure about his wife talking to George Fawcett. That is one handsome older man.”</p><p>Hermione glanced back at Tom Riddle, pondering her friend’s evaluation. Riddle had good bones—strong jaw, prominent cheekbones, and a tall, lean build. He obviously took care of himself, as he was fit, his hair well-groomed, and his evening wear immaculate. But, Hermione decided, he did have a bit of the appearance of a man who hadn’t realised he’d grown out of his boyish good looks. His skin was just a bit shiny and drawn, as though he could stand to moisturise. His hair was full and thick but worn in a loose, youthful style that looked out of place with his premature streaks of grey. Yes, Tom Riddle had likely been a handsome boy, but at thirty-something, Hermione concluded, he had lost some of that original charm.</p><p>“Yes,” she finally replied. “George looks better every year, I swear it. Or—and don’t you dare hit me for saying it—Abraxas Malfoy! That man was made for middle-age, and goodness do I hope we get to witness it.”</p><p>Minerva laughed openly, startling a few people nearby, and gave Hermione a solid thwack on her bicep despite the request. “If I hadn’t sworn off snakes entirely, I might be inclined to agree about Malfoy. Now, let’s grab Amandine before she heads off, I promised to check in about the pregnancy.”</p>
<hr/><p>Voldemort leaned forward against the stone railing overlooking the Selwyn gardens. Light and faint noise drifted from behind him through the partially-open doors leading to the ballroom. He was decidedly alone, ignoring the other wedding guests milling about the gardens and clearly biding time until it was socially appropriate for him to leave. He had come tonight on invitation from the bride’s brother, an acquaintance from school, and had resolved to use the evening as final fundraising opportunity before leaving for the continent. He’d saved most of his salary as a shop clerk, and had secured pledges from Malfoy, Nott, and Lestrange, but he wanted to have enough funds to cover a decade away from the UK without needing to take regular employment during his travels. He’d already spent hours networking, only to receive piddling donations or, worse, lame excuses. He understood that as a poor half-blood who had—apparently—wasted his potential as a shopboy and hadn’t followed the conventional path of marrying and siring an heir, he would face challenges in this endeavor. His embarrassingly low success rate tonight was yet more proof, and not for the first time in the past five years, he worried that his plans would need to wait another generation, when the people who had known him as the poor orphan boy finally signed their fortunes over to children who had only known his magical power. He huffed a breath and checked his watch.</p><p>Noise flared behind him, signaling that the ballroom doors had opened. Light footsteps—a solitary woman. He sighed as she asked the expected question: “Mind if I join you here?” </p><p>Voldemort turned to examine the interruption. She was probably about a decade younger than he, with fair skin, dark, curly hair tied back in a twist, and round, warm brown eyes. She wore a slim silk gown in a dusty mid-blue that was just a bit out-of-date—it had a straight neckline, and shallow Vs were starting to dominate—that nonetheless highlighted prominent collarbones and smooth skin. In a word, she was pretty. Voldemort could recognise that. </p><p>Unfortunately, he could also recognise her thoughts. Rushing through her head in that instant that he decided she was pretty, she was thinking that he <i>might not be an Abraxas, but he’s not bad for his age.</i> It... well, it was a bit upsetting. He started to dismiss her, turning back to his quiet contemplation of the gardens, when she kept talking.</p><p>“It’s only just that, well, you’re Tom Riddle, and I’ve wanted to meet you for ages.” <i>More like you would give a leg to talk to him,</i> her thoughts supplied. “I’m Hermione Granger, I’m not sure if you’ve heard the name before,” <i>he’s definitely going to think you’re some self-important floozy, you dolt,</i> “but we were something of academic rivals,” <i>only eight years apart, so it was completely one-sided,</i> “and I’ve wanted to tell you off for ruining my shot at glory before I even started since, well, since the first time Professor Slughorn said your name.” She gave him a hopeful smile at the end of her speech.</p><p>Voldemort was confused. He hid it behind his ever-present mask of indifference, of course. He had expected the woman to be someone with a schoolgirl crush, someone who had been too young during their Hogwarts days to have a shot with handsome Tom Riddle, here to flutter and preen at him until he offered a dance. He would have, if her name was tied to a fat Gringotts account. But this woman, despite her initial thoughts on his appearance, seemed to want only to talk to him.</p><p>“Hermione Granger,” he delayed, “sounds familiar. You are friends with Minerva McGonagall, correct?” He lied. Her name was completely unfamiliar. He had seen her with the McGonagall woman earlier in the night, however.</p><p>“Yes, Min and I are quite close, though I may never forgive her for being Head Girl.”</p><p>“Are you so sour about all of your Hogwarts peers, or are Miss McGonagall and I just special?” Hermione flushed bright red at the jab, and he admired the way the color marred her cheeks. She was pretty. He squashed the thought that he was only not bad for his age.</p><p>“No, I—oh, this started off all wrong. I just wanted to meet the only man who academically bested me, you know? The professors said we were the best students since Albus Dumbledore, maybe even better, and I’ve always been curious about you. What it would have been like if we were closer in years, if my record would have escaped your shadow, or what classes would have been like with someone of your intelligence in another house.”</p><p>“You must have been a Gryffindor. We wouldn’t have talked at all, then, and would probably have hated each other.” He was pleased with her forthrightness; these were earnest, not simpering, compliments about his academic accomplishments from someone near his level. She was likely still far below him, he knew, but he couldn’t fault her that when she was so open about having come second to him.</p><p>“Yes, I was, and you might be right.” She sighed. “I still like to think that even a contentious academic rivalry would have been invigorating, though! And you might be surprised—I was, allegedly, a troublemaker as a schoolgirl. I might have gotten on with a smart Slytherin.” He had the disquieting thought that if they had been more familiar, Hermione would have winked after that line.</p><p>“Is this, perhaps, why Miss McGonagall was Head Girl?” Voldemort played along. The young woman had settled on the bannister next to him, elbows propping her up and hands hanging loosely forward. The slight hunch of her shoulders caused the neckline of her dress to gape, and he could see the swells and valley of her chest. He let his gaze follow the faint outline of a blue vein down one soft and pale breast.</p><p>“I was never caught!” She protested. “And anyway, curfew always felt like more of a guideline to help people too stupid to not get caught. That was the fun of Hogwarts, really. You start your first year with this list of restrictions, and by the end of your seventh, you have found your way around each of them.”</p><p>Voldemort laughed, actually laughed, at that. It was a loud, slightly manic sound, his laughter, and Hermione startled for a moment before nervously joining in. “Oh my. I have never heard another alumnus say that, but I find myself in full agreement.” He paused. This was the moment to back out: if Voldemort continued this conversation, he had a feeling it would last a while. Did he want to continue talking with this unknown woman? She had no money for him, that was plain. Her out-of-date dress and Muggle surname made clear that even if she might be willing and able to convert a fortune in pounds to galleons, she just wasn’t invested in establishing the right type of Wizarding presence to help his movement. If she were, she would have married a sympathetic pureblood right out of Hogwarts. </p><p>Still, she seemed... entertaining. She was open and friendly, which was very unusual in his circles, especially for women. She must be somewhat intelligent if their former professors were comparing her to him, though the extent of that intelligence remained to be seen. And if Voldemort angled himself just so, he could occasionally glance and the curve of her waist and her lovely, round rear as they continued to face out toward the gardens. Yes, perhaps this was more rewarding than returning to the ballroom in order to grovel for money.</p><p>“Let’s have a challenge, then. Perhaps we can find another way in which I’ve bested your record. In which year did you start regularly visiting the Forbidden Forest?”</p><p>“Third. Potions ingredients near the copse of fruit trees.”</p><p>“Third as well. I planted some of those ingredients, but my time in the forest was primarily social. Kitchens?”</p><p>“Second year is when I discovered the secret of the pear. Min and I started making a habit of post-curfew trips when she became Prefect in Fifth. It was so far away from the tower.”</p><p>“I found the kitchens my first month. I, erm, I grew up in a Muggle orphanage.” Enough people here already knew; it was probably safe for him to share. “Food was scarce then. Third year post-curfew. It was very close to our dungeons.” He paused for a breath, eyes glinting with something wicked when he threw her a curveball. “First time in another house’s common room?” This was rarely done, and Voldemort thought he might stump her completely.</p><p>She grinned back at him. “Second year. I polyjuiced myself into the Slytherin common room with Minnie to get back at some boys.”</p><p>He let out a low whistle. “You’ve got me, Miss Granger. Where’d you get that polyjuice in second year? Anyway, fourth, Hufflepuff, with some girl. In fifth I realized Ravenclaw tower would let in anyone with half a brain and regularly ransacked their private library.”</p><p>“I brewed it myself, in the toilet in the haunted girls’ bathroom. That happened during your time, yeah? Not that I expect you’d notice changes in a girls’ bathroom much.”</p><p>Voldemort blinked. Those close to him knew to never talk about Myrtle, but he was still nervous that someone from his time at Hogwarts could put two and two together to connect him to the <i>incident</i>. The more years passed, the safer he would be. It was really too bad Dippet had felt the need to give him a special award for framing that half-breed, and Voldemort wondered briefly if he could persuade the old headmaster to gift him the physical trophy, thereby removing it from the school. Still, a few moments had passed, and Hermione seemed only to be waiting for his next challenge. </p><p>Right, then. “You know what remains. The restricted section?”</p><p>Hermione was somewhat disappointed that her successful brewing of polyjuice potion in a girls’ loo as a second-year went completely ignored. That deserved some comment, but then, Tom Riddle must not be one to laud others. She sighed. “I finally managed an unlimited pass in my sixth year, when we had an awful and incredibly naive temporary professor for Defense. Before that, to my great shame, I only managed notes for specific books or I had to sneak my way in. You probably had old Slug get you unlimited access in your first year, you lucky thing.”</p><p>“Ah,” he smiled at her obvious jealously, “Third year, actually. Professor Slughorn was an... advantageous head of house. But surely Dumbledore was good to his lion cubs?” If he couldn’t keep the bitter edge out of his question, well, he had tried.</p><p>“No,” she responded with no defensiveness. </p><p>Voldemort was surprised. “No? What do you mean, no?”</p><p>If she was uneasy at his interrogation, she did not show it. “I was allegedly a troublemaker, remember? No, Professor Dumbledore was certainly pleasant to me, but he always seemed a bit reluctant to offer me anything beyond basic privileges, no matter my academic excellence or house membership.” She let that statement hang for a few long moments, and he took the opportunity to study her face. He would have called her expression sorrowful, but something hard in the set of her eyes made that not fully accurate. “Anyway, Minerva was his star pupil, so I had no chance.”</p><p>“Yes, she’s his apprentice now, correct? Probably on deck to head the Transfiguration department once he ascends to Headmaster?”</p><p>“Yes, she’s done her time at the ministry, and she’s fully committed to a life of academia, educating snotty children, and mooning after Dumbledore.”</p><p>Voldemort was struck, again, by a fit of manic laughter. Hermione joined more readily this time, but quickly realised that her comment was no match for the intensity—and longevity—of his laughing fit. She looked slightly concerned for him by the time he had managed to calm himself.</p><p>“I—oh, she’s really—just,” he heaved, “Dumbledore is bent! She knows that, right?”</p><p>This time, it was Hermione who nearly collapsed as she giggled, which set off Voldemort again. They laughed uncontrollably for some minutes, his arms wrapped around himself, and hers splayed wide on the railing to support her weight. When she was finally able to speak again, she was wiping tears from her eyes.</p><p>“We had no idea,” she whispered. “None at all. Oh, she’s... admired... him for years! Nearly a decade! We never knew! I mean, not that she expected to, you know, with him, but... she at least had some hope he might appreciate her in that way. To think, he never even... lord!” The Muggle oath took Voldemort by surprise, after so long in pureblood circles, but it had a certain sort of rightness for the moment. “How did you know? Are you—I mean, no offense, but it’s not like I would expect a Slytherin to know anything that personal about the very private Gryffindor head of house.”</p><p>“No,” he bristled, “and I hope I <i>do not</i> strike you as such.” <i>Why did he hope that?</i> her mind flashed, so he smirked at her. “You could say that Dumbledore was going through a very messy, protracted breakup with an ex-lover on the continent during my Hogwarts years.”</p><p>“Oh.” A pause, followed by some blinking. “OH. Wow, Tom, that is. That is unexpected.” She turned to face him fully. “You’re sure?”</p><p>“As sure as I can be, given the circumstances,” he responded. Even if this lion wasn’t a favored cub, how would she respond to a revelation like this? He waited.</p><p>“Well, then,” she thought, “he was more of a git than I thought. I might have—allegedly—cursed a few classmates—who would have definitely deserved it, if I had—and broken a few rules, but I have never covered up an affair with a Dark wizard. What nerve!”</p><p>“He was, indeed, a nervy git.” Voldemort licked his lips. Though he had initially feared just this, he found himself desperately wanting to dance with Hermione Granger tonight. “Miss Granger—ah, I would—er, would you—oh, let’s share a dance as thanks for your company tonight. If you wouldn’t mind?” And his breath caught as she stepped forward, took his hand, and nodded up at him from beneath fluttering lashes. </p><p>
  <i>—very handsome, oh no, I’m going to look like a frump next to him, he’s—</i>
</p><p>He smiled. Handsome, is he now?</p>
<hr/><p>Voldemort held her small body close to his as the song started. Not too close—she was probably a Muggleborn, and his associates were here—but he still felt the warmth from her skin, and his hand still curved around the dip of her waist and the swell of her hips. He supposed he could excuse this dance using the same reasoning she initially provided to talk to him, but it was a distant thought. Mostly, his mind focused on cataloging her physical presence. Was her hair silky and smooth, or springy and robust? Were those curls her own, or the work of an advanced charm? Her eyes were warm and only half-open, and he avoided Legilimency in order not to shatter the moment. He couldn’t take a downgrade from handsome now that she was in his arms.</p><p>He certainly used that as an excuse to look down her bodice. She had pale and small breasts, and he wondered how they would feel in his hand, or in his mouth.</p><p>As the song slowed, she turned her head and rested it lightly on his chest. It took Voldemort nearly everything in his power not to physically respond to that gesture, but even so, he nearly whined at the contact. She felt nice. She was entertaining company. She was so pretty. He was not going to be able to control his body’s reaction if they shared more than one dance, especially if she continued to pull closer to him. He could feel the pads of her fingers resting lightly in the hair at the back of his neck and that contact was driving him to distraction.</p><p>Voldemort pulled her off to the side as soon as the song was finished, and took a moment’s satisfaction in her mild look of disappointment. “Miss Granger, it’s been a fine evening. Thank you for the dance.”</p><p>“Hermione.” She offered. “Call me Hermione. Would you mind if I... wrote you? I enjoyed our conversation very much.”</p><p>Voldemort hesitated in deliberation. He was heading to the continent soon—maybe weeks, maybe months, but certainly before the end of the year. Women were pretty distractions, but they could get clingy. He would not have the time to deal with a woman hoping to be courted, and he wasn’t in need of a new companion for physical release.</p><p>But Hermione wasn’t asking for tea or dinner. Letters. Yes, Voldemort could do letters. Letters were asynchronous. Letters were low-investment. Letters could be ignored, or a correspondence ended with a short reply.</p><p>“I would be very open to receiving a letter from you, Hermione.”</p><p>She blushed prettily. Was everything about her pretty?</p><p>“Please look forward to my letter, then. Goodnight, Tom.”</p><p>“Goodnight, Hermione.”</p>
<hr/><p>“That looked like a very romantic waltz, Hermione! Is he the reason I haven’t seen you for the last hour?” Minerva accosted her at almost the instant Tom bid her goodnight.</p><p>“Oh, Min! Leave off. We just talked. It was nice. We compared notes about our school years, just basic stuff.” Hermione deflected her friend’s attention.</p><p>“Sure, and he was not looking down your dress while you danced. Merlin, Tom Riddle ogling my best friend, the Gryffindor swot!” She fake-swooned as she said his name, and Hermione turned pink and made a choking noise.</p><p>“You’re one to talk! Did you know Professor Dumbledore is homosexual?”</p><p>Minerva’s face drained of color. She looked, Hermione observed, earnestly devastated at the news. “No, you’re lying. You’re lying just to get back at me,” she moaned.</p><p>“Nope. So I guess it’s time to build up that old fancy you had for Urquart. He’s still totally enamored of you, right? He can fill your need for older gents.”</p><p>“Oh, Hermione,” her friend lamented, “it’s just not the same.”</p><p>But Hermione’s attention was lost as, across the room, Tom Riddle caught her eye and curled his lips just so into a private smile.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Summer, 1961</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tom,</p><p>It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance at the Diggory wedding. I am still slightly in awe of you—I am embarrassed to admit this—as you were something of a defining figure in my early life. I hope we can build a relationship on a slightly more equal footing as adults, though I doubt my admiration of your intellect will fade.</p><p>I was wondering whether you had read the editorial on the Durmstrang Dark Arts curriculum that was recently published in the <i>Prophet</i>. I generally consider the paper to be drivel, but I was surprised to see Elias Maier come out of seclusion to...</p>
<hr/><p>“Hermione, love, it’s deferential.” Minerva did not mince words, and the angle of her narrowed eyes made clear how she felt about the tone of the unsent letter.</p><p>Hermione flopped back dramatically on her lumpy sofa. “Min, this is difficult! He kind of inspires that sort of treatment, and yeah, I am a bit star struck. I don’t know why—I’m hardly the teen girl competing against his exam scores anymore—but it feels wrong to start my first letter to him without acknowledging his presence, you know?”</p><p>“Hmm,” her friend pretended to think, “why not go all the way and address him as ‘My Lord,’ then?”</p><p>This set off a fit of giggles, and Hermione swatted at her friend’s tightly-twisted hair as if they really were teens. Once Minerva’s straight black hair was looking suitably mussed, Hermione let her go and collected herself. “It’s not dissimilar from when you started your apprenticeship with Albus. How did you handle that?”</p><p>This had apparently been the wrong comparison, as Minerva sucked in air through her teeth. “You know... Albus does not like Tom.” She seemed reluctant to say more.</p><p>“Tom kind of implied that when we talked,” Hermione conceded. She knew that Albus’ opinion held a huge sway over Minerva, and that Tom and Minerva would probably not ever be close if Albus still had strong negative feelings about Tom. Not that Hermione was close with Tom. Yet. Yet? She needed to say something and stop this train of thought now. “Professor Dumbledore never liked me much.”</p><p>Minerva flinched, and Hermione felt bad for dredging up the old argument again. Her friend began to wind up the usual speech, saying, “Albus liked you fine, he was just worried about you. If you had been more interested in transfiguration, and you had just gotten to know him better—”</p><p>“Yes, sorry, yes, of course. Look, Min, I just need to have a longer think on the letter; I’m sure I’ll come up with something. So anyway, how are you handling the revisions to your first-year curriculum?”</p>
<hr/><p>Hermione did not come up with something that week, or the next. She was walking into the White Wyvern for a long lunch break during which she was decidedly not going to dwell on that letter when exactly the wrong voice called her name.</p><p>“Hermione Granger?” Tom Riddle waved to her from a corner booth where he sat alone, and she had no choice but to join him. She kept her eyes averted in embarrassment. “Why, Miss Granger, I’m hurt. You <i>have</i> been avoiding me, and after I gave you permission to write.”</p><p>She tried to appear unaffected, and she was almost certain she failed to pull it off. He was just so self-assured compared to her, and unlike Hermione, he cut a figure of the same refinement both in dress robes and out. Her cigarette trousers and blouse were decidedly five years out-of-date, she wore no outer robe, and trousers were probably the wrong choice for a good impression anyway. Not that she even owned skirts. She flashed him a weak smile. “Tom. I’ve been meaning to write. I—well, I ran into you here, so this lunch can make up for my tardiness. I’ll pay!” It came out a little shrilly, and she was feeling sorry for herself when the server interrupted to take their order.</p><p><i>Oh, I didn’t even think about my order! I suppose the onion soup is a safe choice,</i> she mentally prepared as Tom was speaking. “—and she’ll have the onion soup. With... extra bread, yes. Thank you.” He dismissed the server and turned back to her shocked expression.</p><p>“You’re a Legilimens?” She whispered.</p><p>“Yes, I—how did you—I’m sorry.” Tom was stumbling over his words, and she prodded him with her foot under the table. “I apologise. I saw your order in your thoughts. I should have asked. I’m supposed to ask. I never ask. I’m used to hearing peoples’ thoughts, and it’s just second nature to use them to make things more efficient. I will probably do it again.”</p><p>
  <i>Well, that’s not comforting.</i>
</p><p>“I am the wrong companion for comfort.”</p><p>“Okay! I get it. If you could kindly pretend like you’re not doing that—“</p><p>“I won’t. Pretend, that is.”</p><p>“—then we could try and see if this friendship exists outside the confines of forced proximity. Right, then.”</p><p>Hermione took a breath and looked back up at Tom. She knew enough about Legilimency to know that direct eye contact would only strengthen the connection, but Tom seemed more than capable of embarrassing her without that. She would just have to accept this. </p><p>He looked much the same as he had at the wedding. His hair had that boyish wave, he was tall and slim. Sitting close in the light of day, though, Hermione noticed the deep blue of his eyes, so dark as to appear almost black. She also noticed that he wore the robes of a shop clerk—finely tailored to his striking frame, sure, but a working man’s robes. It struck her, then: “Tom, do you work around here?”</p><p>He seemed slightly affronted when he responded, “Yes, I clerk for Borgin &amp; Burke’s.” No elaboration, no reciprocal question. She had upset him. She had insulted him.</p><p>“Oh, I didn’t—I stock for the secondhand bookshop on Diagon. That’s why I—they don’t have a dress code for me because I stay in the back, sorting. A lot of really interesting stuff comes through. I think I blew every galleon that didn’t go to rent or food on books from the store during my first year. Which was stupid. I’m smarter about book purchases these days. It pays the bills, and it ends at three because I come in before opening to restock the shelves. I can spend all afternoon working on my charms research, which is what really interests me anyway, and I did my time at the ministry, and we live to about 150 years old, so I figure I have some years to find my place.” She was rambling and baring too much of herself to Tom, but he was smirking so he must have calmed down. He seemed to enjoy feeling like he had the upper hand. It was cute.</p><p>“You work nearby, then? I’m surprised that we hadn’t crossed paths before today, or even before the wedding.”</p><p>“I didn’t know what you looked like before the wedding. I knew who you were, but I couldn’t have picked you out of a crowd. And, Tom Riddle, I don’t think you knew who I was at all,” she teased.</p><p>“No, I didn’t. I lied.” His unashamed bluntness took her by surprise just as the server returned with their food. She preoccupied herself with eating for a few minutes, watching him through her lashes. He was a strange man, with how quickly he jumped between moods. He was an uncomfortable mix of sensitive and unempathetic, and Hermione felt more than a little unbalanced in this conversation. Still, he hadn’t asked her to leave, or left himself, and he seemed willing to listen to her, so she figured she could be doing worse. She just wished he would offer more—she was deadly curious to know him.</p><p>“Why did you lie about knowing me?”</p><p>“I wasn’t sure where you fit, and pretending to know of you was the most strategic option. Now that I know where you fit, I would prefer to be more honest about the circumstances of our acquaintance. I think it’s advantageous.” He was a fastidious diner and managed to say all of that without leaving a single crumb out of place. Hermione swiped her napkin surreptitiously at a dot of soup that had landed on the table.</p><p>“Er, where do I fit, exactly?”</p><p>“I would prefer not to say at this time. I think it would be disadvantageous.”</p><p>“Okay. Well. What can you say, Mr. Riddle?”</p><p>“A joke based on my name, how droll. Would you like to hear about the buffoon who came into the shop this morning? He attempted to pass off a mundane 1920s-era foe-glass of mass manufacture as a Regency antique. He—or someone, perhaps he was truly stupid and not malicious—had attempted metalworking charms on the case to replicate the filigree on the extant example in the British Museum, if you can imagine. It was insulting.” He smirked again, clearly proud of his awareness of the deception, and Hermione melted into her seat. </p><p>They spent a friendly half-hour in light conversation about their respective jobs until it was time to return to work. Tom offered his goodbyes and a final jab, saying, “Perhaps you will not be delinquent in writing to me this time, Hermione.”</p><p>“Yes! I mean, no!” She stuttered. “And maybe next time you can buy me lunch.” <i>Shit. That was presumptuous. You just asked him to ask you on a date.</i></p><p>“It was presumptuous,” Tom smirked, and Hermione flushed bright red. God, his smirk was cute. He would have been a devastating Head Boy. “And I’m afraid that I usually do not make time for a long lunch break, so it will have to be dinner. If you write.”</p>
<hr/><p>Hermione,</p><p>I had hoped you would have written by now, it has been two days, but I find myself impatient to settle next week’s dinner schedule. Please set aside Thursday night. I will meet you outside the Leaky at seven.</p><p>TMR</p>
<hr/><p>“Tom, what is this? You can’t just demand her presence; you barely know her.”</p><p>“Abraxas, I can, and I did.”</p>
<hr/><p>“MINERVA, I HAVE TO CANCEL THURSDAY.”</p><p>“Hermione, why are you shouting? I think all of Gryffindor Tower must have heard you from my office. Wait, are you going on a date with—” </p><p>“YES.”</p><p>“Sorry, to be clear, this is with Tom Riddle?”</p><p>“YES.”</p><p>“I am your maid of honor, yes?” Hermione’s end of the floo connection provided incoherent screeching. “Shh, honey, Albus is meeting me soon. I’m cutting you off before either I have to kill you or he has to kill your new boy.”</p><p>“TOM WOULD BEAT HI—”</p>
<hr/><p>Voldemort was waiting impatiently on the Wizarding side of the Leaky Cauldron on Thursday at 6:50pm. It was still early for their arranged meeting, but he had been there for five minutes already, and he figured her to be early, so it was irritating that he was the fifteen minutes early type and she was the five or ten. Merlin, he hoped she was the ten.</p><p>He had dressed nicely for their dinner, shining his oxfords and choosing a pair of trousers that he’d had made the last time he was in Paris. It was too formal for a dinner at the Leaky, but Voldemort had used an excess of formality as a self-defense mechanism for so long that he no longer recognised it. He chose to keep his hair styled in loose waves—he was convinced Hermione was very wrong that it looked too young on him—but had tried a moisturising skin cream this morning and begrudgingly accepted that it helped with his fine lines. </p><p>Voldemort felt suitably smug when Hermione approached (she was the five minutes early type) with a clear look of appreciation on her face. He would bask in it for the evening. Well, he would have, if he hadn’t bothered to give her an appraising glance before heading in.</p><p>Hermione was wearing a shirt tucked into high-waisted trousers, and, importantly, the shirt was unbuttoned to a very low point on her sternum. Voldemort needed only half a second to weigh his options: he could spend all evening pretending not to stare down her shirt, perhaps kiss her goodbye to end the night, spend Merlin-knows how many weeks doing more of the same, and maybe manage to seduce her the expected way after months of courting, or... or.</p><p>So she had barely greeted him when he growled, “We’re going,” and spun them into apparition.</p><p>“Oh, are we not eating at the Leaky? I would have... Tom. Tom, is this your flat?” He watched her take in his sparsely-furnished single-bedroom flat, and even though the humbleness of his living space was normally a source of shame, Voldemort’s high spirits could not be dampened while she still stood in front of him.</p><p>He gave her a truly devious smile. He had not let her go. “Yes, Hermione. And if you’d like to eat, you can get yourself something later. But I promised to pay for your dinner in exchange for a letter, which you did not deliver, so I am afraid that I will be using this evening for something quite different.” Voldemort paused just long enough to watch her throat bob before leaning down to meet her lips with his own.</p><p>He deepened the kiss immediately, biting her lower lip and probing with his tongue almost on contact. She made an abortive noise of surprise before giving in and moaning into his mouth, her teeth scraping him as she fought to register her agency in this exchange. She was the first to move her hands, grabbing the back of his neck to pull him closer. He retaliated by sliding his hands to her arse and pulling her up and around him. </p><p>Voldemort was elated: Hermione had responded perfectly. Now that he was holding her, he walked their entwined bodies to his sofa and used his strength to throw her down. She looked almost angry for the second it took him to collapse on top of her and she showed her displeasure by yanking roughly on his hair. Voldemort groaned in shock and pleasure—that felt <i>good</i>. He ground himself against her thigh to demonstrate just how much her revenge had backfired, and she quickly curved her back up to meet him. Their kiss continued, Hermione now working her way down his face to nip at his neck as he moved across her cheek to thrust his tongue in her ear. This prompted a feral yowl from Hermione, followed by her moaning his name—his birth name—and wrapping a leg around his waist to pull him closer.</p><p>They were fully pressed against each other now. Voldemort could feel her nipples tightening against his chest and his erection pressed into the softness of her thigh. He needed more, fast, but they were both fully dressed and they hadn’t exactly talked about any of this beforehand.</p><p>With great effort, Voldemort heaved himself up on his forearms. Hermione whined and tried to follow him, but he held her down by her shoulders. That sent a jolt of arousal straight to his groin, and he jerked his hips against her once before remembering his end goal and regaining composure.</p><p>“Tell me to stop,” he demanded, voice low and rough. Her eyes were glazed and uncomprehending, so he repeated again, “Tell me if you need this to stop. If you don’t, we’re getting undressed.” She took a moment to understand before nodding energetically, sending her mass of curly hair into greater disarray. It was almost cute, he thought, but getting them both naked was more pressing than dwelling on her mannerisms and so he fumbled for his wand in order to banish their clothes. She cried out in amazement when her outfit thumped into a neatly-folded pile on the floor and Voldemort took this moment of distraction to appreciate her naked body.</p><p>Hermione was pale and dark-haired, similar to him, but where Voldemort was tall and solid, she was small and delicate. He had noticed her fine hands when they danced, but he was now taken by the tininess of her hips, waist, and breasts—she was like a fae creature made from human flesh, and perfectly unmarred by signs of age, unlike his own unpleasant body. He wanted to drink her essence, to absorb whatever magic had formed her into this glorious shape.</p><p>But she bucked her hips impatiently, hipbone just grazing the sensitive tip of his cock, and he was reminded of his baser needs. Voldemort kissed her lips briefly for good measure and then moved on to her breasts. He kissed between them, licking his way first to the tip of one and then the other before latching on to one of her nipples, using his hand to tweak the other. She made throaty, guttural noises in response and held his head down on her chest, so he stayed there and sucked and bit as she demanded. He worked his other hand to her core, dragging two fingers along her wet cunt until they reached her clit where he rubbed hard. Hermione screamed. He smiled against her skin and repeated the action, alternately rubbing and teasing her until she was crying real tears, her hands still buried in his hair and pressing his mouth to her breast.</p><p>“Tom,” she sobbed, “Tom, I need you to let me come or I need you to fuck me.”</p><p>Well, if she demanded, Voldemort was more than willing to comply. His aching cock had been wedged between her legs and his stomach, and when she so crudely demanded he use it, it twitched painfully. He let go of her nipple gently, blowing on it once to soothe her sad whimpers, and pulled himself back up on his forearms as he used his hand to spread her legs. He looked up to her for confirmation when he had aligned himself with her entrance, but she had already moved a hand down to grab him and pull him in. He thrust forward in surprise, burying himself inside of her and nearly coming in that motion, she felt so good. Her cunt was wet and ready and so deliciously tight, befitting his impression of her as a tiny fae creature. If he couldn’t absorb her, he could at least claim her in this way.</p><p>He started out slow, under the pretense of being generous and considerate, but her low moans and small whimpers were too compelling for Voldemort to keep his composure. Returning his hand to her clit, and using the other to grip her hip, be began thrusting into her quickly, slamming himself to the hilt each time. She reached a hand up to his head to yank his hair in time with his thrusts and he groaned, long and loud, a sound that would have embarrassed him for its rawness if it hadn’t sent her over the edge. </p><p>Hermione came with a short cry and tensed, gripping him tightly between her legs, as he struggled to keep moving through the waves of contractions around his cock. It was heaven. He couldn’t hold there forever, though, and he came as she began to release him, jerking once, twice, until he spilled himself deep inside her.</p><p>They breathed, spending a moment in their own separate pleasures, before he lowered himself gently on top of her and pulled her attention back to him with a kiss.</p><p>“So...” he started.</p><p>“So that was good. Uh. Not what I had planned to do tonight, but that was good,” she confirmed. Voldemort would not have recognized the tension he released when she admitted that, but it happened all the same.</p><p>“I should have asked before, but, you’re protected? I can still use the charm now if you need it.” </p><p>“Yeah. Five-year potion.”</p><p>“Good.”</p><p>It was a bit awkward, holding her naked body against him, feeling his come drip out of her cunt around his softening member, but it also felt comfortable. Voldemort was too chivalrous to deny a woman some post-coital cuddling, but he usually thought it was overrated. Here, with his seed and her juices definitely staining his couch, he kind of understood why people found it pleasant. He was so loose and content that he didn’t want to move, he didn’t want to give up her softness and heat so soon. Fortunately, she seemed to feel the same way, as she just sighed and stroked her fingers along his spine.</p><p>“I don’t want to assume,” she said after some time, “but I would enjoy doing this again.“</p><p>Voldemort thought. He hadn’t really considered that Hermione would be open to a longer-term casual arrangement. He had been afraid that she would want a traditional romance and courtship, but she had just enthusiastically fucked him without dinner on their first date so she was certainly different than the high-society pureblood women that he encountered in his usual circles. It could work.</p><p>“Are you free on Monday?”</p>
<hr/><p>Hermione was glad Tom had been too impatient to wait for her letter. They never did write to each other; Tom either caught her during work to arrange time together, or, once he had learned where she lived, he would pop by her place on his own schedule. Minerva was more than understanding about her friend’s spotty availability that summer. </p><p>Having a relationship with Tom was peculiar, to be certain. He was courteous and generous with his time, and he seemed equally happy to arrange a date out as to spend an evening in one of their flats. Hermione was glad for this. One experience with a guy who was embarrassed to be seen with her was more than enough. But Tom never invited Hermione to meet his friends, and never took an interest in meeting hers. He wouldn’t shy away from returning someone’s greeting when they were out together, but Hermione sensed that Tom kept his social schedule highly compartmentalised. She got the impression that he had other friends and spent time with them, just as she had her own, but this part of their lives was not a topic of conversation between them. They did talk: Tom about the daily realities of working at Borgin &amp; Burkes, Hermione about her charms work, and both of them about their latest reading, but they stuck to topics where other people were more abstract notions of someone who had existed, rather than living persons that might come for a drink at the pub.</p><p>Tom was also somewhat disconnected from Wizarding society. Despite living and working in the heart of Wizarding London, Tom never engaged with quidditch, the Wizarding Wireless, or other parts of the culture. He maintained a subscription to the <i>Prophet</i> but tossed most issues without reading them. And though they had met at a wedding, Tom seemed disinterested in attending most social events, though Hermione noticed he had a stack of invitations on his dining room table. But Hermione was hardly much better on any of those counts, and she wondered whether he had the same thoughts about her lifestyle.</p><p>Hermione’s favorite of Tom’s qualities was that he was a bookworm of the highest order. His nightstand was actually a tower of books waiting to be read. He had a standing weekly appointment at the library. His reading material had a different range than her own—he was open to darker texts than she usually sought, and he also read more fiction—but in her estimation, nothing made Tom a more ideal bedfellow than the fact that he also brought a book to post-coital cuddling. Past boyfriends had complained that she was not romantic for doing just that, but Hermione found nothing more endearing than lying next to Tom in bed for hours, legs barely touching, making progress on her latest tome and knowing that her partner was contentedly doing the same. They spent most weekends that summer tangled together that way. Best yet, she only had to think about being ready for a second round of lovemaking and Tom would pluck the thought from her mind and act on it.</p><p>So, on balance, Hermione was very pleased with Tom. He wasn’t demanding of her attention and preferred not to intertwine their lives quickly, but he was an enthusiastic lover when they were together and was happy to spend time with her. If she had been pressed, she would have called it a healthy beginning to forming a strong relationship. Hermione would have liked a bit more: she would have liked to have some big picture conversations about their lives, without the pressure of commitment, just because they were almost ten years apart and she would have liked to know whether he was hoping to settle down quickly. In early August, Hermione took it upon herself to find some answers.</p>
<hr/><p>“Tom, where do you see yourself in five years?” Hermione was intelligent, and she knew better than to have the ‘What are we?’ conversation with Tom Riddle, no matter how much he might act like this was a serious romantic commitment. </p><p>“I will be in Europe, or just starting nine months in North Africa.” He stated this as if it were a fact as undeniable as ‘water is wet.’</p><p>“Er.” Hermione blinked in surprise. “What?”</p><p>“Hermione,” Tom chided, “you should know that I have detailed plans for my life. Important plans. My next ten years will be spent abroad, mostly on the continent, in pursuit of magical knowledge. I will be leaving soon.”</p><p>“Soon?” Her mouth felt dry, and her heart beat rapidly in her chest. Sure, she might not have expected Tom to answer her by talking about marriage and children—that wouldn’t have been her answer, either—but she also hadn’t expect him to talk so calmly about their... impending breakup? His imminent quest for power that had been very apparently planned without a whatever-she-was-to-him in mind?</p><p>“Yes, I will leave when the time is right, but it will be soon. I think... within a month.”</p><p>Hermione had run through all of the restraint she had conjured to begin this conversation, and now she was left with affronted anger. “Within a MONTH, Tom? When did you plan to tell me this? Did you even consider how we would see each other when you run off on your grand adventure? I work! I can’t travel for ten years. Do you even—fuck, did you think about me at all when you planned this? Had you fucking planned this before we met, before we slept together, and you’re just now thinking to tell me—in response to a question I asked, no less!—that we were only going to be a summer fling?”</p><p>Tom looked at her with an almost-innocent expression of confusion, but didn’t respond to her inquiry. He seemed to be treating her outburst as something to be indulged and let to pass, much to Hermione’s frustration. She steeled herself against her impulse to keep demanding an explanation; Tom would not explain himself. His lack of response was enough answer for Hermione to understand that she had never figured into his plans.</p><p>“I am upset about this revelation,” she began, “though I can acknowledge that you existed before you met me and our... short acquaintance should not necessarily change pre-existing commitments.” Hermione breathed to keep herself centered because it hurt to refer to their relationship so casually. She turned her head to fully face Tom and took his right hand between her own. She studied it before speaking again: long, delicate fingers, neat nails, faint blue-green veins visible through pale skin. She stroked the pads of her fingers around the heavy band of his ever-present gold and onyx ring. “But can you see my position, Tom? I would have appreciated knowing this before we became involved.”</p><p>He nodded decisively. “I understand. You should know that I will be moving frequently and unavailable for the duration of my travels. That is the sort of information you want from me, correct?”</p><p>Hermione couldn’t help but squeeze his hand to console herself. “I won’t be able to visit you?” She could feel tears prick at her eyes and she resolved not to let them overwhelm her until the conversation was through.</p><p>“No,” Tom replied as he placed his other hand over hers. It was slightly awkward—he was not naturally talented at physically consoling her, but she appreciated that he recognized her need. “I have asked Abraxas Malfoy to serve as a conduit for my personal correspondence while I am away. He will forward it to an address I specify when I request it. You could—would you consider writing to me through Abraxas?”</p><p>Hermione used the vulnerability demonstrated by Tom’s question to allow herself time to think for some minutes before answering. He could sweat it out if she was going to face ten years of writing to him without seeing him.</p><p>She was an intelligent, mature woman and she could admit that she was in love with Tom. To deny that fact would be insulting. Hermione didn’t know him, really, in the ways she most wanted to know a partner. She had no idea what his life plans were—that much was evident in this conversation—and she didn’t have a good sense of his social circles, his philosophies and politics, or really anything of substance. She knew this was disadvantageous, but she had figured she would have plenty of time to learn about him before she had to make any life-altering decisions about their relationship. If he had turned out to be a self-hating blood purist, and he would have to be self-hating to sleep with a Muggleborn, she could have ended their relationship without fuss. They had only been seeing each other for two months, and it wasn’t a formal courtship. </p><p>Hermione was confident that she could weather the emotional hurt of ending like that, so she had let herself nurture love for Tom without ever anticipating this outcome. And how could she not grow to love Tom? She hadn’t met him until this summer, but she had known him as a larger-than-life figure since her older housemates had first told stories about him when she was an impressionable eleven-year-old. He was surrounded by his own mythos. Hermione might not have known what he envisioned for his future career, or who he considered his closest friends, but she did know the sound he made when she pulled his hair and she had seen his sweet little smiles when she asked him about his day. There was absolutely no chance that she would spend so much time around him, intimately learning his body and his emotions, and not fall in love. She was human, and anyone in her shoes would have done the same. There was really only one answer to his question.</p><p>“Yes, Tom, I will write to you.”</p><p>He let out a breath and Hermione was sure he hadn’t realized he had stopped breathing. He was visibly relieved for a second before his expression shifted to one of satisfaction. Hermione knew she was a sucker for indulging Tom, but she was completely unable to resist him. He was so awkwardly sweet to her when he got his way.</p><p>“I would like that,” he admitted. “I won’t be able to write to you consistently. I may be out of contact for long periods of time. I would be open to receiving multiple updates from you between my own responses—if you’re willing.”</p><p>This was a prime example of his awkward sweetness. Hermione’s stomach flipped at his statement; Tom always acknowledged her agency in emotionally-intimate situations, and though this gentleness was incongruous with his usual composure, she had come to see it as a defining part of him. He never seemed to assume that she would fulfill his requests for affection. He did seem to treat her promises as inviolable contracts, once given, but she had grown used to that.</p><p>“Of—of <i>course</i> I am willing, Tom. I will write to you.”</p><p>At her response, he gathered Hermione into his arms and held her tightly to himself, without speaking, for a long time. She couldn’t help but feel soothed, despite her earlier anger. His body was firm against hers, and with her nose buried in the crook of his neck, filled with smell the him, this felt almost like an ideal romance.</p><p>And though she was slightly ashamed that her justifiable frustration with Tom for not communicating something so important could be erased by the man exposing a small amount of emotional vulnerability, she could not help but feel sad for him—she doubted he had processed how much of his life he would be giving up for this plan.</p>
<hr/><p>Voldemort had grown tired of waiting—it was time to leave for his travels, time to dedicate himself to the ultimate study of magic. He had spent the day concluding the distasteful business with the Smith matron, and, relics now safely hidden, he was at Hermione’s flat to notify her of his departure.</p><p>She greeted him with a chaste kiss. Voldemort would miss those, but he would return. “I am leaving tonight,” he opened without preamble.</p><p>Hermione’s slight frown made his chest constrict, and he enjoyed the sign of his importance to her. “I take that to mean this is your big trip, the one that will keep you away for a decade.” Her statement was not a question, so Voldemort did not offer a response. After a minute of silence, she sighed and withdrew to her bedroom with a muttered warning for him to stay where he was. When she returned, she thrust a bundle of green cloth into Voldemort’s chest. She wouldn’t look at him as she talked. “I’m not going to pretend to be happy about this, and I am not going to give you my blessing, but... I want you to have this.” Now she looked him in the eye. “If you hate it, fine, but wait until you’re out of England to bin it. I’ve been working on it for the past two months and if you’re going to insult me, you can bloody well wait to do it when you get to France.” </p><p>Voldemort unfurled the bundle with some hesitation—he rarely appreciated gifts, and a gift that came with a disclaimer that he might hate it was hardly enticing—and revealed it to be a sweater. “You made this?” It seemed the only thing to say.</p><p>“Yes, I—I’m not sure that you know, but I enjoy knitting, and, well, I never got to enjoy you in your schoolboy days, but emerald really would suit you, if you ever wore color. So. I thought I would fix that. And you’ll go somewhere cold, in ten years, and I want you to, well, I want you to have something from me. When you’re away.” He didn’t respond and she continued to fill the air. “It’s got some charms on it, too. No warming charm, the Shetland wool will keep you warm, but I added some resistance to both water and abrasion so that it might last you longer. If you keep it. I hope you keep it. I—“</p><p>“You started this over two months ago?” He interrupted her rambling as the math registered in his head. “That was before I told you I would be traveling.”</p><p>“Uh, yes. Your plans may have sped up my knitting timeline. I just finished last week. Is that—is that presumptuous?”</p><p>“Undoubtedly.” He pinched the sweater by the shoulders and evaluated it critically. It was a fine hand knit, not one of those thick, lumpy monstrosities that people used to donate to the orphanage. It had the slim cut and v neckline he preferred of his old Hogwarts uniform sweater, and, yes, was precisely Slytherin emerald green. It would do. He flicked his wrists and non-magically folded it with practiced ease. “Thank you. I appreciate your gift.”</p><p> </p><p>Hermione looked up at Tom, still awkwardly holding her sweater, and took in his worn face and prematurely greying hair. She stared at the man clinging to boyish good looks, and she thought viciously, <i>I love you, you git! I love you and you leaving will tear me up and I’ll still jump off a cliff to write to you, to have a chance to hear anything at all from you, even though I know you won’t share your secrets and that tears me apart too. And I know you’re in my damn mind, so fucking SAY SOMETHING.</i></p><p>“I... care very much about you, Hermione. I have to go. My travel plans will keep me away for many years, and you know that I won’t come back for any reason. You promised to write, so do it.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So—Tom is terrible at receiving gifts, yeah?</p><p>Thanks for reading and commenting!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Gap Year</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Ready to speed through a decade? Here we go.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>19 September, 1961</p>
<p>Tom—</p>
<p>It’s my birthday! I turn 27 today. I had been looking forward to spending today with you and introducing you to some of my friends. Instead, I’m writing to you as a present to myself. When is your birthday? I want to be sure to write to you on that day, even if you don’t see it for some time, so you know someone was thinking of you as you enter a new year. </p>
<p>I will celebrate tonight with Minerva, of course, and our friend Hester, whose wedding you attended. We would also usually have a fourth member of our group, Amandine Rosier (a former Hufflepuff—she’s a Rosier by marriage), but she recently had her first child. I think we will spend a quiet night in Hogsmeade as Minerva’s school term is in session. </p>
<p>Missing you today,<br/>Hermione</p>
<hr/>
<p>October 1961</p>
<p>Tom—</p>
<p>I celebrated Minerva’s birthday (October 4) with her in London, despite it being a school night. She insisted. She said she needed to get away from “that self-important old codger” for an evening and remember that she isn’t a dried-up prune (yet) (I will let you guess to whom she was referring).</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(It was Dumbledore.)</p>
<p>It seems Minnie is frustrated with him this year now that she knows his romantic inclinations—she’s more aware, and critical, of how he manipulates her emotions so that she’ll do what he wants. Don’t celebrate too quickly, though; I think this will pass. She still agrees with most of what he does, she’s just mad that he was playing on her admiration. If she can come to admire him as just a mentor, and she continues to hold her own on the few things over which they disagree, I am happy for her. I could never work with Dumbledore, though.</p>
<p>I will be attending a Halloween ball at House Rosier, courtesy of Amandine, this year. Would you have been in attendance? I would have like to go with you. I admit that I am nervous to attend a party with so many former Slytherins. I’m not hung up on house rivalries, and I hardly think you are all Dark wizards or such rot, but your house has the tightest-knit friendships out of any, and I don’t want to feel left out. I wonder, if we had gone together, would you have made introductions? Don’t worry: I won’t use your name to create any connections. For one, I am a Gryffindor, and obliged to be terrible at networking; secondly, we never defined the nature of our relationship before you left and I will not presume upon it when you’re not here to make corrections. I may thank Abraxas Malfoy for forwarding this correspondence if I can do so privately.</p>
<p>How are you holding up? Can you tell me about where you have been and what you have learned so far?</p>
<p>I miss you,<br/>Hermione</p>
<hr/>
<p>November 1961</p>
<p>Hermione,</p>
<p>I would have danced with you at Halloween. The Slytherins in attendance were beneath you, no need for introductions. Pity that Minerva will return so easily to Dumbledore.</p>
<p>I have learned so much already in these few short months. I have a much better understanding of what I still do not know. These will be a productive ten years, but I cannot tell you more.</p>
<p>My birthday is December 31st, 1926. I do not usually celebrate, but I will accept your letter. Tell me about your life.</p>
<p>TMR</p>
<hr/>
<p>31 December, 1961</p>
<p>Tom—</p>
<p>Happy birthday, and happy new year. If you were here, I would be sure to kiss you at midnight for luck and happiness in the coming year. Instead, I will have to content myself with thinking of you on the stroke of midnight. I wish you had built time for the holidays into your travel plans!</p>
<p>It suits you, by the way, to be a New Year’s Eve baby. You are the type of person that, much like the holiday, is full of promise. I think you typically live up to your resolutions, though.</p>
<p>I admit that I am not sure exactly what you want to hear about my life. I put off responding to your letter because of that, but I can’t ignore your question and I can’t ignore your birthday, so this has to be the draft that I send.</p>
<p>I should probably tell you at some point that I am a Muggleborn. You might have guessed from my name. I know that you have a Muggle surname, too—are you a Muggleborn or half-blood? Do you just happen to have an unusual Wizarding surname? I know blood politics are complicated, and if you ignore my inquiry, I will respect your space. </p>
<p>My parents are both dentists (Muggle tooth doctors, though I think you know that). They are the type of eminently practical people that, as soon as they were told I was a witch, immediately accepted the news as out of their control and moved on to fulfilling the requirements of my situation. I am so thankful for them, and they will always have a place in my history, but I have found that it is much easier to live fully in the Wizarding world as an adult. Sometimes I think about how my parents must feel, having essentially lost their only child—I’m about as distant as if I had moved to Australia!—and it makes me sad, especially around the holidays. I also think about the fact that I will outlive them by so many years (my parents had me when they were older adults), and that also makes me sad. I spent Boxing Day with them this year (I have done Christmas with the McGonagall family since we left school) and I honestly don’t think they have many years left. I hope it’s not too upsetting to read me mope about my parents. I’ll stop writing about myself before this becomes too much of a mess.</p>
<p>I hope that you were able to celebrate your birthday and the winter holidays where you are.</p>
<p>Yours,<br/>Hermione</p>
<hr/>
<p>January 1962</p>
<p>Hermione,</p>
<p>Thank you for your well-wishes. I am fed, sheltered, clothed, and still learning, so my holidays have been a success. </p>
<p>I have no interest in talking about my family, but I am not averse to you writing about your own. Entertain me with stories about your school days. What sort of troublemaker were you?</p>
<p>I met a wizard with hair just like yours outside of Nice. It looked better on you.</p>
<p>TMR</p>
<hr/>
<p>Hermione wrote to Tom at least once a month for the next year, describing her life before they met, social events she was attending, and even the occasional story from work. She received in return only the occasional message from Tom encouraging her to keep writing, a sketch of her face, and one scrap of parchment that read: “Still alive.” She tried not too worry too much about the implications of that note. He was never more forthcoming than in his initial correspondence, and though she was sad that she didn’t know what he was experiencing, she tried not to pry in her letters.</p>
<hr/>
<p>May 1963</p>
<p>Tom—</p>
<p>I write with great news: I will formally start a Charms apprenticeship during the September school term! Hogwarts hired a new Charms instructor, Filius Flitwick, a year or two ago—I’m not sure if you and he ever met—and this is the second year I petitioned him for an apprenticeship. He wrote that he finally feels settled enough to take on my training, and I am overjoyed for the opportunity! I don’t think I can pursue a permanent position at Hogwarts once I earn my Mastery (is that presumptuous? I haven’t even started!), but the headmaster assured me that I am more than welcome to take on teaching duties for some classes as part of my assistanceship. I will be living either in the castle or in Hogsmeade. This is the closest I will have lived to Minerva since we were girls! I am thrilled, as you can tell. Filius is an extremely talented man, and he’s also an accomplished duelist, so I hope to learn a few things from him outside of charms.</p>
<p>I am so excited to get to share this news with you,<br/>Hermione</p>
<hr/>
<p>July 1963</p>
<p>Tom—</p>
<p>An update: I have decided to take residence in the Hogwarts castle for my first year. I am aware of the risk of becoming overly nostalgic for my schooldays, but it has been almost a decade since my graduation, so I figure myself safe. Dumbledore imposes particular rules on the behavior of staff living in the castle so that we set a good example for the students, but Minerva assures me that they’re quite reasonable. She lives in castle quarters as well, and I thought it would be fun to be close to her.</p>
<p>Yours,<br/>Hermione</p>
<hr/>
<p>August 1963</p>
<p>Hermione,</p>
<p>There are a dozen charms masters in France and Germany with more talent than Flitwick who would have been lucky to take you as an apprentice. You would have been further from Dumbledore, too.</p>
<p>Locate a copy of the 1798 publication <i>Naturalist Charming</i>, by Henry Edmonstone. This would be my apprenticeship gift to you.</p>
<p>TMR</p>
<hr/>
<p>September 1963</p>
<p>Tom—</p>
<p>Dumbledore will barely figure into my apprenticeship! He is the headmaster of the school, but I will spend most of my time working on independent research. Teaching a few sections of courses for the lower years using Flitwick’s lesson plans will hardly indenture me into Dumbledore’s permanent service.</p>
<p>I looked up the text you suggested. It was expensive, by the way, so thanks for the warning. Regency-era climate charms? They look like they were intended for use in gardening, but they have long since been supplanted by more effective options. I do think a modification of the breeze charm Edmonstone suggested in the pollination section could be applied to a Wizard’s robes in order to effect a stately billow—I’ll try it on you when you get back. Where did you learn about the book?</p>
<p>Despite the cost, I appreciate that you would have gifted me this volume. An apprenticeship probably looks trite to you, compared to your self-directed learning, but it means something to me that others will formally recognize my accomplishments. I cannot wait to start my research. For now, I am still acclimating to my role as an instructor. Firsties are so small, Tom! Were we ever so tiny? Unfortunately, they are also incredibly stupid. I cannot translate into text the number of ways they are capable of mispronouncing “Leviosa.” It’s as if they don’t know how to control their own motor processes—repeat the words I say, that’s all they have to do! Sorry; I am sure you think teaching is an incredibly boring job. </p>
<p>Professor Slughorn still speaks highly of you. I have not told him that you and I are acquainted, by the way. He saw me again and felt the need to remind me that my scores were second only to those of the illustrious Tom Riddle. Don’t worry; I will not let him know how to get in touch with you, though I can tell he would love to do so.</p>
<p>Yours,<br/>Hermione</p>
<hr/>
<p>Hermione’s apprenticeship was an exciting new chapter in her life, and she wrote to Tom often about her milestones: the completion of her first teaching term, the start of her first research project, the first spell she created (the robe-billowing charm was a success). She wrote about picking her long-term research area (appearance-altering charms). She mailed him the journals where her two papers were published. He reciprocated with book recommendations, most of which were obscure or marginal authors she wouldn’t have come across in mainstream charms literature. Though never verbose, Tom’s longest letters to date came in response to her research and publications. She treasured his comments; she knew that Tom taking time to address her work seriously was the highest compliment he could pay.</p>
<p>Her apprenticeship stalled out in her third year. Hermione had completed the bulk of her practical work and had only her dissertation remaining—she should have been able to finish within the year, but something managed to interfere with her progress each term. The headmaster increased her course load once her practical work had wound down, and she now taught half of the classes for years 1–5. When she floated the idea that she should scale back to focus on writing, perhaps even move out of the castle, she found herself cajoled into complying with an archaic four-year residency requirement for apprentices that had not been enforced since the 1830s. Flitwick made sympathetic noises but deferred to the headmaster’s judgment, and Hermione suspected that he was more than a little swayed by his reduced workload without a commensurate pay decrease. She could understand that motivation, but she was frustrated: if she, like Minerva, was being groomed to take over the instructor post for Hogwarts, the extra teaching work and residency time would seem fair. She had known from the start, however, that she was only here to train for her mastery, and additional years of low pay and long hours in the remote wilds of Scotland were unappealing. </p>
<p>She poured this frustration into her letters to Tom, as Minerva would not have been a safe outlet for her feelings. Unfortunately, Tom’s responses during this period were growing sparse, and each of her letters contained her distress at their reduced contact.</p>
<p>His letter addressing her situation would turn out to be both his longest response and his last. Unlike the others, it was written on Muggle paper using what appeared to be a disposable ballpoint pen. Only the outer shell was parchment to protect the Muggle innards from the trials of Wizarding mail.</p>
<hr/>
<p>April 1966</p>
<p>Hermione,</p>
<p>Please forgive me the medium on which I have written this letter. This past year has been challenging, and I find myself often without means to do things the Wizarding way. I am learning and I am safe; do not worry for me. I only want you to know that I acknowledge my departure from normal behavior, and I do not wish you to think less of me for it. I felt that I needed to respond to your recent letters and this was my only option for the foreseeable future.</p>
<p>I will be crass: Dumbledore is fucking with you. You know that Hogwarts is held together with string and tape. Staffing has always been an issue. Most professors are much too old, or too behind on modern research, to take on an apprentice. Professors in primary subjects are teaching every section of their classes for all seven years of students—you must observe this with Minerva. Filius Flitwick is head of House Ravenclaw in addition to his teaching post, and surely enjoys whatever freedom your assistance brings, especially now that you have surpassed the need for his supervision. Even if he would be happy to have you complete your mastery tomorrow—and you should not assume that is the case—the headmaster surely wants to keep an extra set of hands around the castle. </p>
<p>He might want to offer you a long-term role at the school when a position opens up or is created by the board. He might want to keep you in a place he can observe. (Have you been posting your letters to me these past years using Hogwarts owls?) He might be enjoying having a witch of your intelligence under his control. His reasons don’t matter to your immediate situation. Would you want to build a life and career at Hogwarts? If you do not, stop trying to reason within the system he has built. It is a prison.</p>
<p>Follow the regulations set in front of you to the letter. I cannot say whether Dumbledore or Flitwick would act against you in retribution, but it is best not to give them the opening. That seems to mean spending another year teaching at the castle instead of making the progress you need in your writing. I hope you are able to make time for your dissertation and complete it within the year, but understand that those circumstances may be beyond your control. Find yourself some employment for the year following—I suggest private research, which should be easy given your area of speciality—and move out. Your employment will necessitate both relocation and setting an end date for your apprenticeship, which will be a term of your employment contract. (You can ask for this term to be added if it is not already present. I suggest a completion date somewhere between nine months and a year after your start date.) Your workload will be significantly less than that of your current teaching duties no matter where you end up. Frankly, you could ask any of your pureblood friends to have their families draw up such an employment contract. Dumbledore might see through the farce but he could not stop it.</p>
<p>You will finish. This may not have been the apprentice experience that you had initially hoped, and for that, I am sorry. I did suggest that you would find more suitable masters on the continent, but no matter that now. Your work is solid. You have been published. Your dissertation topic is compelling and widely-applicable. You just need to survive the scheming of the headmaster for one more year and make it impractical for him to plot your future for you. </p>
<p>Keep writing to me. Do not expect many replies.</p>
<p>TMR</p>
<hr/>
<p>His advice was both exactly what Hermione had needed and nowhere near enough. Though she tried to follow the path he laid out for her, she struggled with feelings of hopelessness about her situation: her work was stressful and unproductive at a time when she had thought she would be close to completion, and Tom, one of her primary emotional outlets, was completely unresponsive. She poured her hurts into her letters, half of which were burnt unsent, throughout the fourth year of her apprenticeship. In the summer term, she finally accepted that she had to move forward.</p>
<hr/>
<p>June 1967</p>
<p>Tom—</p>
<p>It’s been over a year since I last heard from you. I have given up hope of ever hearing from you again. I’m so sorry—you warned me that this would be difficult, but I find myself unable to continue writing into a void with no hope of response.</p>
<p>I want you to respond, of course. I want to get your terse letter berating me for being emotional about a gap in correspondence that ends with a book recommendation. I have saved all of your letters, every scrap of paper or parchment that you have sent me. Sometimes, I try to piece together the history of your travels, using your stamps, your comments, anything. I wanted to compare my guesses with your reality when you returned. Would you have told me? You never were the type to share, but I like to think you might have indulged me by at least confirming or denying the accuracy of my assumptions.</p>
<p>However, I no longer think that another letter will arrive. I can’t. It has become too painful, too draining, to leave half of myself in stasis for you. You will always be important to me, but I need to stop pretending that this is an active relationship. </p>
<p>I do hope you are still alive. I want you to come back in 1971, like you promised, and be disappointed in me, be angry with me. I want you to care when you see me again. Please, Tom—do me the favor of yelling at me, even if we never speak after that point. If you are alive. If you return. I want to have something to show for this decade by that time. I want to scream at you that I completed my mastery, so I must have made the right choice. Maybe if we fight, we can make up.</p>
<p>Until that fight, I will continue to miss you. I hope you are alive. Goodbye, Tom.</p>
<p>Yours,<br/>Hermione</p>
<hr/>
<p>Hermione Granger and George Fawcett cordially invite you and a guest to celebrate their marriage, at a ceremony to be held on November 12, 1968, at Fawcett Manor. Please send your RSVP to...</p>
<hr/>
<p>April 1970</p>
<p>Tom—</p>
<p>I’m not sure why I’m writing to you now. I’d given up on you being alive years ago. I suppose this is really just a self-indulgent confessional that I will mail off into the void, where it will live until Abraxas destroys all of your unread letters on his deathbed.</p>
<p>I suppose you don’t know that yet. Abraxas Malfoy and I are friendly. We met at my wedding, which he was only invited to because my husband was a pureblood, and which he claims he only attended so he could tell you about it later, if you ever turned up. He thought you might like to know. I think that was a sweet gesture. I think he misses you. I know your relationship wasn’t—isn’t?—sentimental, but he seems like he was actually close to you, when you were young. I wouldn’t know firsthand, but I would guess he’s gotten better with age. He dotes on his family and he’s been very generous with his library since the start of our acquaintance. I like him, even if he is a wealthy ponce. I hope that, if you do come back, you can resume that friendship.</p>
<p>I’m dawdling. I know this is a letter, and I could throw out this draft and start again, but to be honest with myself, I am pretty certain that I want you to have time to acclimate to me, to my voice, before you read what I’m about to say. If you read what I’m about to say.</p>
<p>You know by now that I married George Fawcett. I can tell you how that happened, if you’re interested, though I rather suspect you would find it banal. It all happened after my last letter to you, in any case—I hope you know that I would have told you as it was happening if we had been actively corresponding. I am not in the business of hiding from you.</p>
<p>At least, I hope you know. God, I hope you saw the wedding invite before you read this. Abraxas promised that he would always bundle your correspondence in chronological order by sender. Just know that you were invited. Again, I am not ashamed of my choices, and I would not hide them from you. I would have been overjoyed to see you in attendance at my wedding. I had already missed you for so long by then.</p>
<p>Well, George and I are divorced. I cannot help being an object of scandal. I’ve returned to my maiden name, even. Abraxas was deeply disappointed—he accused me of being “an insufferable Gryffindor” when I announced it, though Minnie was thrilled. I moved out this week, and for the first time in years, I find myself starting my life anew. I have too many gravy boats and no saucepans of my own, and I feel like a strange version of a fresh Hogwarts graduate, except I am 35 years old and instead of ignoring Ministry job offers I am ignoring rude looks in Diagon Alley. I could use your Slytherin advice in dealing with that; Minerva keeps jinxing people on my behalf, and it’s really quite uncouth behavior for the Hogwarts Transfiguration Mistress.</p>
<p>I’m going to tell you why we got divorced, though I suspect you would stop me if we were conversing in person. That’s the advantage of sending a letter to your probably-dead friend. He wanted to have children. Half of the reason I even began seeing him was that I figured a man so much older than me—he’s 24 years older—who had never married wasn’t interested in children. Well, I was due to renew my five-year potion recently, and he was shocked and upset that I wanted to continue on birth control. God, now I know you’re not interested in this. Indulge me. He thought we had both “postponed the inevitable” long enough. I cannot express in writing how upset I was. I have obviously renewed my birth control, and I freed George to find a young witch whose family goals aligned more closely with his own.</p>
<p>I ask myself what you would have advised me to do. I can’t decide—you would have hated to have to do something for someone else, so perhaps you would have supported the divorce. On the other hand, I’m once again a working-class single Muggleborn witch, ten years older than I was when we met, and I feel as though the Slytherin in you would scold me for giving up the advantages that I had won. Probably, there is no choice that would have satisfied you. Tom, I don’t care if you would have berated me, I just wish you had been here to say something while I was going through this. You are as essential a part of my life as Minerva has been since we met at eleven. </p>
<p>I hope you’re not dead. I might yell at you when I see you again, if you’re not dead. You should know that.</p>
<p>Yours, <br/>Hermione</p>
<hr/>
<p>May 1970</p>
<p>Abraxas—</p>
<p>I will be in residence at the address on this missive for the next three months. Forward my correspondence immediately.</p>
<p>LV</p>
<hr/>
<p>May 1970</p>
<p>Sir, it is good to hear from you again. You will find enclosed all correspondence addressed to you since 1966. </p>
<p>Cordially,<br/>Abraxas Malfoy</p>
<hr/>
<p>“Abraxas.” Voldemort delivered the name as a condemnation, not a greeting. “Hermione Granger was married. She was married long enough to now be divorced, and I didn’t know!”</p>
<p>Abraxas Malfoy, leaning on a lifetime of good manners, took the first appearance of his old school friend in nine years without comment. “Do come in, sir. It is good to see you returned, whole and hale, from your travels. Would you like anything to drink this evening?”</p>
<p>Voldemort brushed past his host and stalked irately in the direction of Abraxas’ office, ignoring everything the man had said. “I told her I would be traveling for some time. I told that to everyone. Everyone knew I was to be gone, busy, for a decade, and I would not come back for any purpose.”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir. I had rather thought, from your most recent correspondence, that you intended to stay for some months in Luxembourg. Did your business there wrap up so soon?” Abraxas poured himself a glass of whisky, determined to follow social protocols well enough for two men.</p>
<p>“No!” Voldemort bellowed, “I had to steal the books I went there to study in order to be back here. Merlin only knows when I will be able to make a final visit to Algeria. But she was <i>married,</i> Brax, and I received both the wedding invite and the letter discussing her divorce in the same bundle of mail. I told her—told everyone—I would not have time for regular correspondence while I was away. What does she expect me to <i>do</i> with this information that she went and got married and divorced?”</p>
<p>Abraxas allowed himself a minute sigh, nothing more than a slightly forced exhalation of air. Voldemort had not addressed Abraxas using his childhood nickname for easily two decades. To be frank, it slightly appalled Abraxas that anyone would refer to the Malfoy patriarch in his prime using a diminutive name, but Voldemort was not just anyone. </p>
<p>He took a moment to observe the man standing across the room. Voldemort looked much worse for the wear, despite Abraxas’ earlier greeting. His hair was noticeably more grey, ratty, and too long, like he hadn’t had a trim for nearly a year. He carried visible, if faint, scars on his face and hands, which suggested that much more, and possibly worse, scarring covered the clothed parts of his body. His skin was only lightly wrinkled, definitely good for a man in his forties, but very dry, which likely exacerbated the scarring. He was thin almost to the point of gauntness. His clothes were neat and clean, though worn—he had on an emerald sweater and charcoal trousers under his thick woolen robes. Abraxas mentally awarded the man credit for understanding the importance of good dress, even if the outfit was a smidge below the usual standards for a guest of the manor.</p>
<p>Still, Abraxas had to respond. “I think she would expect you to respond as a friend to news about her personal life, if she has chosen to confide it to you in your correspondence.”</p>
<p>“A <i>friend?</i>” Voldemort seethed. </p>
<p>Ah. Abraxas had wondered, over the years, about the nature of the relationship between Voldemort and Hermione Granger. It was not his place to question Hermione directly, of course, but Voldemort had chosen to route all his correspondence through the Malfoy estate during his travels, and Abraxas would have had to be a complete idiot to not notice the frequency of her letters to Voldemort, and the uniqueness of that position amongst his correspondents. Still, the woman had been married—and divorced—in the past decade. That indicated that she, at least, had not interpreted Voldemort’s statements about his travels as a command to wait for him.</p>
<p>“If I may speak to you, Tom,” Abraxas stressed the familiarity of the name, “as men who were once boys together.”</p>
<p>It was not a question, but Voldemort recognized it and nodded. He was looking at his own hands, fiddling with the hem of his sweater in a distinctly nervous way.</p>
<p>“A person like Hermione Granger would have required something substantial in order to put her life on hold for a decade.”</p>
<p>“Substantial?” It was whispered, but it was a question. Voldemort’s eyes were entirely hidden by the unkempt fringe of hair draped over his face.</p>
<p>“For Salazar’s sake, Tom!” Abraxas allowed himself the drama of decisively placing his heavy tumbler on the mantle nearby. The clack of glass against stone was satisfying and timed precisely. “She needs to know that you love her if you expect her to shape her life around you.”</p>
<p>Voldemort’s head shot up immediately, and though Abraxas could see the cold calculation in his eyes, he could also tell that Voldemort was not seeing anything in the room. “She needs to know,” the man repeated. “Abraxas.” His eyes snapped to the patriarch. “Thank you for your hospitality this evening. I am back from my travels now, and I expect I can count on you. I will make arrangements with you soon. Good evening.” And with that, Voldemort stood up and turned to sweep out of the office, out of the manor.</p>
<p>For this, Abraxas allowed himself a real sigh. “No, Tom. Not tonight! It is past ten in the evening! You walk yourself right over to the violet suite and spend the night; we will clean you up and set you a meeting tomorrow. You cannot—“</p>
<p>But Voldemort was already gone, and Abraxas could only hope that the man hadn’t traded all of his good sense for power during his time away.</p>
<hr/>
<p>“Hermione.” Voldemort delivered the name with authority, striding into her flat as soon as she answered her door. “It is good to see you again, after so long.” Once fully in the room, he turned to face her with a quizzical look, as if it were she visiting his residence and hesitating to step inside.</p>
<p>“Tom!” Despite the surprise of seeing Tom show up at her door at eleven at night for their first encounter in nearly a decade, she wrapped her arms around him in a brief embrace with no hesitation. “You didn’t write that you were coming back. Actually,” she hesitated now, “you... haven’t written in years.”</p>
<p>“I missed you,” he stated plainly, cutting her off. “I treasured your letters. I’m back now, for you.” Voldemort approached her, pulling her hands into his own.</p>
<p>“Tom, I’m really... that’s really nice to hear. But what are you—“</p>
<p>“Hermione.” Her name was again a statement, this time of purpose. Of intention. “Hermione. I love you.”</p>
<p>Hermione’s warm eyes widened in absolute shock.</p>
<p>“You WHAT?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And so we’ve covered almost ten years! I hope it worked for you. I’d love to hear your thoughts!</p>
<p>Hermione’s mastery experience is brought to you by every frustration from the 3rd/4th year of grad school. My Tom was my husband, who’d survived his own doctorate and had wonderful, practical advice that I was much too messy to appreciate at the time. You get through, though.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Summer, 1970</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I love you, and I am here for you now. I came back early. I stole some books. I’ll have to take a trip to Algeria in four months. But I love you, I am here, and now you know.”</p><p>“What in bloody hell, Tom!” Hermione screeched. It was much too late at night for this, and she had to find a way to placate him and get to bed before events spiraled even further out of control. Yes, Hermione had wanted Tom to come back to England for ages, but she hadn’t expected his homecoming to go, well, like this. She had no words to describe whatever this was.</p><p>She took a deep breath and looked at him, really looked at the man standing in front of her. She observed his ratty grey hair, his copious new scars, and his haggard face. <i>He looks like shit,</i> she thought. <i>He looks like shit, but he’s wearing my sweater.</i> She immediately cringed and hoped he hadn’t been listening to her thoughts.</p><p>“I am wearing your sweater,” he offered.</p><p><i>Fuck.</i> She’d been caught. She sighed and turned her hands in his grip so she could squeeze him consolingly. “You’ve clearly come a long way, why don’t I transfigure the couch so you can get some sleep? You—wait, you didn’t come back because you finally saw my letters, did you?”</p><p>“Yes.” She winced. It had been too much to hope that he hadn’t made an impulsive decision upon seeing news of her personal life. “I was... distraught to know that I had missed so much from you during my absence. I stopped by Malfoy Manor first, and Abraxas helped me see our miscommunication. I should have told you that I loved you before I started my travels, so you would have known to wait for me. I was coming back for you.”</p><p>Hermione rolled her eyes at that, as much as it made her stomach flutter to hear anything like this from Tom. She wasn’t sure what, exactly, Abraxas had said, but she guessed Tom had misrepresented the conversation. Still, looking up into his deep blue eyes, she was more than a bit thankful that this awkward, beautiful confrontation was happening. Tom was here and he was professing love and long-term commitment and it was, well, it was confusing, but it also made her incredibly happy. But definitely, primarily, it confused her.</p><p>“Tom,” she said his name so gently, “you didn’t love me when you left.” It was a question, even if she wasn’t bold enough to use the appropriate inflection. Not that Tom noticed. </p><p>“No, I did not.” Decisive. Her eyes fell. “But if I had said it then, you would have waited. You would have known I was coming back for you.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t have wanted it if it was a lie,” she chided. “Did you—I mean—when did you know you loved me? Maybe, if you had written...”</p><p>“Abraxas informed me tonight that I should not have expected you to wait for me without knowing I loved you, so I came right away to let you know.”</p><p>Hermione felt her poor, overstressed heart shatter in her chest. Her marriage wasn’t even two months dead. Tom had showed up in the middle of the night and declared his love, but that love was, what? An hour old? <i>Did he really love her?</i></p><p>“Of course I love you. I’ve decided that’s the word for how I feel about you, and I do not make decisions lightly.”</p><p>“Maybe not lightly, but you do make them impulsively, Tom.” She took a steadying breath and removed her hands from his grasp. It was too late for this much emotional stress, and she needed to send Abraxas a tersely-worded letter immediately. Perhaps something about keeping his children in line, but Hermione guessed that Lucius, already a teen, was likely much better equipped to have this conversation than Tom. “It’s late. You take the sofa—“ with a quick swish of her wand, it was now appropriately sized and dressed for a man of his stature to comfortably sleep, “—and we can talk after breakfast tomorrow.”</p><p>“Hermione,” he breathed, sweeping her into the awkward and slightly-too-tight embrace of a man still unused to physical gestures of affection. He held her there for a few long minutes. She thought he might be smelling her hair. When finally he let her go, she dashed to the privacy of her room with a muttered goodnight.</p>
<hr/><p>Voldemort observed Hermione the next morning over breakfast. She looked good, but different. Apart from minor signs of aging, she had radically changed her appearance. She had cut her formerly waist-length curls into something much shorter, a sort of fuzzy bob that coiled around her face. It was so short that Voldemort doubted she could tie it back. Her clothing, too, looked different: she wore what appeared to be men’s denims with the waist altered to fit, into which she had tucked a linen blouse unbuttoned to create a deep V neckline. It reminded him of the outfit she had worn for their first date, but more casual and less feminine, though still all Muggle. </p><p>His observation must have lingered, because she spoke somewhat defensively. “Wizarding Britain is more casual than you remember, Tom. People wear denims and twill trousers now. People my age and younger go out in tee-shirts under their robes, and more and more wizards and witches are forgoing robes as daily wear. Maybe not your age group or the pureblood crowd, but you should expect to see people dressed like this.”</p><p>In contrast, Voldemort had changed into an oxford shirt and summer-weight wool when he awoke this morning. He didn’t think he owned trousers made of anything but wool or linen. He wasn’t afraid of looking old-fashioned; judging by Abraxas’ appearance last night, Voldemort’s remaining wardrobe would still suit. Further, he would need to restock all of the necessities of daily life and if that included purchasing trousers made of cotton twill, he could manage the indignity. No, though he had been staring, it wasn’t Hermione’s clothes that had caught his attention—it was how she carried herself. Hermione at 26 had been perpetually tense and eager to please. She held her shoulders around her ears even in her own home and only relaxed after receiving enough affirmation. Hermione of this morning looked calm and self-assured. She was clearly unsure what to make of his unexpected presence in her flat, but she was processing that discomfort without defensiveness. </p><p>Voldemort liked this change. He wanted to hold her, to take her in his arms again as he had last night, to kiss her as he had in the more distant past, but present-day Hermione didn’t project neediness through her thoughts like the Hermione of his memories. He could give her space for now. He was more than eager to observe how else she had changed.</p><p>“If you would be willing to assist me in navigating my return during these early stages, I would be most appreciative,” he offered.</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s start with something concrete and actionable,” Hermione strategized, summoning a quill and parchment for list-making. “What are your immediate plans for, say, the next week?”</p><p>Tom nodded and set about answering her. “First, I plan to check my accounts and personal effects, to make sure they are all in order.” Hermione made a noise of agreement and began writing the list. “Next, I plan to arrange lodging with Abraxas as a guest of the manor.” Her brow furrowed slightly, but she noted it on the list. “Finally, I intend to inquire about the Defense post at Hogwarts.” Here, Hermione let ink drip from the nib rather than commit words to paper.</p><p>“That isn’t what I expected. Erm, why the Defense post?”</p><p>“It would be a solid career for me.”</p><p>“Tom,” she refused to buy his obvious cover, “you and Dumbledore apparently despise each other, and not only would he be your boss in that role, you would have to interview with him to get the job. You know you will not get the job. Why is this on the list?”</p><p>“I would prefer to revisit that question another time, if you refuse to consider it a possibility,” he huffed. </p><p>“You look like a mood swing and Dumbledore will spot that in a second. You cannot seriously think that you have a shot?”</p><p>“Hogwarts would be lucky to have a man of my talents teaching Defense,” he spat. </p><p>“That may be, but you won’t get hired. I’ll move on, though, if you insist and if we can leave it off the list.” Tom gave a reluctant nod. “So... how long did you plan to stay with Abraxas before you found your own flat?”</p><p>“No, Hermione,” he began indulgently, “I will be a guest of the manor for as long as I need. Abraxas has known this for many years. He will host me as I build my presence here. It will be an honorable position for him.”</p><p>Hermione blinked. When Tom did not elaborate on the absurd notion that he, an adult man, would be the indefinite house guest of his friend and that friend’s family, she pushed away both pen and parchment in favor of taking his hands in her own. “I think we may need to have a more serious conversation about your long-term plans, one that might include Abraxas. Honestly, Tom, only checking on your accounts and effects seems reasonable for your first week back, and though I agree you need shelter and employment, neither of your suggestions for those is what I would expect.” She squeezed his long fingers gently before letting go. “If you don’t mind, I would like to host you here for now. We’re right off Diagon so you should have access to everything you need immediately, and it’s a good base for when you start looking for your own flat or interviewing for jobs. It’s no Malfoy manor, and I would be happy to hand you off to Abraxas for a week or two, but wouldn’t you like to have your own space eventually?”</p><p>Her tone must have been more patronizing than she intended, because he jumped up from the table and stalked toward the one window in her kitchen. He ignored her for an uncomfortably long time before tightly saying, “I think I shall busy myself with my accounts for the next few days. I will be in and out; do not wait up for me.” Tom readied himself to leave, but Hermione jumped up and snatched his right boot before he could slip it on.</p><p>“No!” she shouted. She was behaving petulantly, she knew, but she was still emotionally unstable from Tom’s sudden reappearance. </p><p>“Give me my boot, Hermione.” He held out his hand in expectation, which only caused her to clutch the old thing closer to her chest. Tom rolled his eyes at her.</p><p>“No, Tom, you cannot do this again. You left me without warning nine years ago, and you know what that did to me. If you want me to be around for you now you are not allowed to just walk out and come back whenever you feel like it. You will keep me informed, or you can walk out of this flat and never come back. Actually,” she was on a roll now, her indignation and hurt from the past four years giving her strength, “this all has to change. I won’t tolerate you keeping so many secrets from me, either. I don’t need you to tell me everything today, but if you are going to come back into my life and proclaim your love and expect that to be enough for me to blindly accept anything you do, sir, you are incorrect.” She indulged herself a smug smile—26-year-old Hermione had let Tom leave without verbalizing her needs, but she was now marvelously resisting any regression. </p><p>Her self-determination seemed to come at the expense of Tom’s mood. His expression vacillated between anger and fear, and he was pacing in front of her door with only one boot on. She looked down at the boot she had been clutching, at the angry red marks it had left where it was pressed to her sternum, and extended her arms to hold it in his field of vision. “Here,” she offered, “if you want to take some time on your own to think about this, I understand.”</p><p>Tom looked at the boot in her hand uncomprehendingly for a long moment, then he surged forward and pressed Hermione to him, crushing the boot between their chests. “I won’t lose you,” he promised. “I will come back late tonight, after ten. We will talk tomorrow. I’m here now, for you.” He let go of her gently, spun to leave, and immediately spun back to collect his missing boot, which made Hermione giggle.</p><p>Tom bent to put on his second boot. When he straightened, Hermione placed a soft kiss on his cheek, and he turned slightly pink in response. “I’ll look forward to it.”</p>
<hr/><p>Voldemort returned that evening when he had promised, much to Hermione’s apparent delight. He had made time to have his hair cut into his preferred style—the one Hermione had once thought was too youthful—and she stroked his head soothingly once he had settled onto her transfigured couch for the evening and stayed with him that way until he fell asleep.</p><p> </p><p>He talked to her the next day. Voldemort had been earnest: if Hermione needed to hear where he had stayed abroad, or hear stories about what he had experienced, he could provide those to her. She didn’t expect an exacting retelling of the past nine years, and he could easily have discussed his travels for months without divulging anything particularly incriminating. He built up a routine over the next month—he would provide a general description of his plans for the next day, something like “meeting at Nott castle” or “following up on correspondence from the past few years,” along with an estimate of when he would return to her flat. He would unfailingly meet that estimate. On days when he and she were both in the flat at a reasonable hour, he would tell her about his travels. He described wizarding districts in foreign cities. He shared stories about unusual witches and wizards. He taught her spells. He let her read books he had acquired. Though they were not having sex, she had asked him to start sleeping with her in her bedroom at night.</p><p>Voldemort did not talk about the Darkest magic he had experienced. He did not share stories about the people he had murdered. He did not tell her that he had used Crucio on Lestrange when the man laughed at Voldemort for demanding that Lestrange resume his monthly tithes. </p><p>Progress on his ascent to power was slower than Voldemort had anticipated. He had organized regular meetings with his old followers on his first day back, and he had expected that he would demonstrate all of the magical power he had gained, perhaps lecture on a few of the subjects that were challenging to reproduce without attracting attention, and the men would jump to donate or pledge other resources to support Lord Voldemort. As his first month in England came to a close, however, he still hadn’t secured donations from more than half of the group. They cited needing to focus on their children (mostly in Hogwarts, now) and spouses. They gossiped about how poorly handsome Tom Riddle had aged. They boasted about their impressive careers and individual spheres of influence. They name-dropped important people he had not met. In short: they weren’t afraid enough of Voldemort to immediately reorganize their priorities. It made him angry.</p><p>He was having a difficult time controlling that anger. During the day, out of Hermione’s flat, he could indulge his darker impulses. London, unlike some of the remote villages he had spent time in, had plenty of spare Muggles for experimenting with curses. Even just practicing his most powerful magic left him feeling safely drained enough to slip back into Hermione’s bed and fall asleep. He began spending all of his waking hours either exclusively with Hermione or outside of her flat, because she commented about him seeming on edge if she spent time with him after his meetings. Voldemort’s days with Hermione were pleasant but a distraction. He could not operate out of her flat without spending some time with her—he knew she would get upset—and so he arranged with Abraxas to spend two weeks as a guest at the manor. Hermione seemed vaguely upset until she received an owl from Abraxas confirming the arrangement; Voldemort spent the subsequent day brooding over the way she had sought another person’s reassurance. But his departure day arrived quickly, and soon she was kissing his cheek goodbye and he was off for two weeks of uninterrupted power consolidation.</p>
<hr/><p>“Minerva, you look splendid,” Hermione gushed as she greeted her friend in the Three Broomsticks. And indeed she did: Minerva McGonagall had served as the esteemed Head of Transfiguration and Gryffindor House for five years now, and she looked like the type of witch who would doubtless continue to rise through the ranks of Hogwarts to achieve Headmistress some day. She wore pale green high-necked Victorian robes which emphasized her height and feminine grace with a complementary tartan stole draped over one shoulder. She was the picture of a serious and refined witch, and Hermione, in her Muggle men’s clothing, envied her friend’s comfort in that role. Hermione’s only concession to Wizarding dress had been to borrow one of Tom’s wool cloaks for her visit to the blustery Scottish town.</p><p>Minerva scoffed. “Tch, flattery won’t make me less upset with you.”</p><p>“I know, Min,” Hermione pleaded, “And I’m sorry to impose, but you are my best friend and the only person I can talk to.” She was not above more flattery, because despite what Minerva claimed, it would definitely soften up the woman.</p><p>Minerva rolled her eyes but indicated for them to sit down at the booth. “Yes, yes. I’ve already ordered for you. So tell me, then: what has Riddle done now?”</p><p>This was the crux of their conflict. Minerva and Hermione were, truly, best friends, but they had been friends for so long that they would inevitably find points of disagreement. Hermione rarely talked to Minerva about Albus Dumbledore, and Minerva rarely engaged in conversation about Tom Riddle.</p><p>This embargo started around four years ago, when Hermione had been trying to finish her mastery and was in despair about Tom’s lack of communication. Minerva had tried to be a supportive friend, but she just couldn’t understand why Hermione would be upset about spending more time on the Hogwarts staff. It felt like a personal affront, because if Hermione wanted to leave Hogwarts, did that mean she didn’t like Minerva enough to stay? And Minerva’s insecurities had found Tom Riddle to be a convenient scapegoat. The absentee boyfriend occupying so much of Hermione’s attention, whispering negative things about Dumbledore in her ear, must be the reason for Hermione’s sour mood. He was, to a point, but not for the reasons Minerva assumed. Still, they had a legendary fight when Hermione left Hogwarts to begin working in private research. It took months for Minerva to accept that Hermione following Tom’s plan—for Hermione had admitted that getting another job had been his suggestion—was truly her own choice. She might not have come around for many more months if Hermione hadn’t also shared the news that she was seeing George Fawcett. And though the two had reconciled, it had been with the understanding that Tom and Albus were to be uncommon topics of conversation, best treated lightly.</p><p>Hermione had Abraxas Malfoy for discussing Tom soon enough, anyway, and her marriage to George had fully persuaded Minerva that the Tom Riddle obsession was in the past. What Minerva would never understand is that Hermione really had put her earlier feelings for Tom to rest, and his reappearance was confusing precisely because she didn’t know how to act in this situation. She still loved Tom, but was she in love with him? They had both changed, and she wasn’t sure how much effort she wanted to put in to rebuilding their relationship.</p><p>When Hermione had written Minerva a month ago, letting her know that Tom was back in town and staying in Hermione’s flat, Min had responded with only curt acknowledgment. It was expected, so it was enough. But after a month of living together, and with him now occupied for some time, Hermione felt that she could really use outside perspective. To Minerva’s eternal credit, she agreed to lunch even though she knew what the discussion would become.</p><p>“Tom hasn’t done—no, I’m not going to start this off defensively. Tom came back, you know that. I’ve been hosting him. He’s no trouble as a guest. He comes in and out, but he always lets me know when to expect him and he’s been faithful to that schedule. I told him I wouldn’t stand for being left in the dark anymore, and he’s been sharing things with me. He’s talking about where he was, the magic he learned, all sorts of things. It’s really nice.”</p><p>“But?” Minerva prodded.</p><p>Hermione grimaced, but nodded. “But I can tell he’s still compartmentalizing. When he’s out, he’s out all day long; when he’s with me, we’re together all day. I’m able to get my work done on the days he’s out so it’s not a disruption, but he hasn’t asked me about my life at all. I’m not sure how he thinks I pay rent.”</p><p>Minerva processed this for a minute before asking, “Are you intimate with him?”</p><p>Hermione’s cheeks turned pink but her voice was steady as she answered. “No. Well,” she amended quickly, “we sleep in the same bed, because I felt bad about asking him to stay on a transfigured couch forever. But we just sleep. In pyjamas. I haven’t seen him in anything less than long sleeves. So we’re familiar with each other, but not sexually intimate, no.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Minerva hummed. “That’s certainly unusual behavior for you two. Any other differences?”</p><p>“He hums to himself when he’s thinking. Sort of like—like he needs to fill the silence, to hear some noise. I think he spent a lot of time alone while he was away.” Hermione considered what further information she should share. “He looks much more worn, though I’m not sure if that’s just aging, travel conditions, or something more permanent. I’m trying to get him to eat regular meals so he regains some weight; we’ll see. He’s definitely moodier, though he seems to be aware of it and stays out when he’s upset so that he doesn’t inflict it on me. I worry about that, of course, but not for my own sake. And—“ Hermione hesitated. She felt that Tom’s declaration of love was too private to share, but she could hint at the change in their relative positions. “He still has the sweater I made for him. He was wearing it the first night, when he came back.”</p><p>“Oh,” Minerva seized on this immediately. The woman might look stern, but she had been engaged in a years-long on-and-off relationship with an older man and intimately understood the importance of such a gesture in an inconsistent courtship. “So the responsibility for moving forward lies with you. I admit, that is not what I expected, and I’m relieved to hear it. You know that I think he’s undeserving of another chance after disappearing on you, so if you want my advice, that’s it. But you probably don’t want my advice, so: you have to figure out how you feel about him. Are you worried he’ll move on?”</p><p>Hermione prevaricated. “Well, I get the sense that he’s serious. I don’t think he would move on to another woman, but he is a man of action and he might find some other way to occupy his time.”</p><p>“Some other way, like all this new magic? Tell me about that,” Minerva prompted.</p><p>“You would find it fascinating,” Hermione’s eyes gleamed at the change in topic. “Let me show you this one spell he taught me. It’s a permanent transfiguration, and I find the wand movements tricky, so give me a minute to concentrate...”</p><p>Hermione extracted a blank scrap of parchment from her pocket and placed it on the table between them. Taking a deep breath and angling her wand just so, she began practicing the series of precisely-timed twists and flicks that the spell demanded. After a couple of dry-runs, she felt confident enough to attempt the real thing and, with determination, repeated the movements, added the incantation, and transformed the parchment into a brilliant butterfly that sat on their table, fluttering its wings. Hermione grinned at her victory.</p><p>In contrast, Minerva scowled. All traces of the hard-won acceptance in their earlier conversation had vanished, and if anything, the woman looked more upset than she had at the start of their meal. </p><p>“That’s borderline Dark.”</p><p>“What?” Hermione was earnestly surprised by this response. “I turned some parchment into a butterfly, and that’s considered Dark Arts?”</p><p>“No, that spell isn’t Dark, but the implications of it are.” Minerva was snappish and haughty, and Hermione wondered if this was how she treated students who had earned detention. “Permanent transfiguration that creates living beings is dangerous.”</p><p>Hermione wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry at the absurdity of this conversation. “Permanently transfiguring objects into animals just creates animals. It’s not like you could create a person—transfiguration can’t make a soul. I really don’t see why this is so upsetting, Min.”</p><p>“Hermione.” Minerva never said her name in that tone. “I mean it. This is dangerous, and if you’re not careful, it could be used to do something very Dark. If you found a way to apply the theory in reverse, to permanently transfigure a living being into an inanimate object, you could use it on a person. Magic cannot create a soul, but it can trap one.”</p><p>They looked at each other in silence, each woman considering the implications of this knowledge. Hermione, for her part, sincerely wished she hadn’t brought it up. She was worried about Tom, of course. He was too smart to not have reached the same conclusions as Minerva, especially when transfiguration was one of his strongest magical subjects. But he had taught her an innocent application of the theory, and magic was about intention. She was concerned that Minerva would jump straight to whatever nefarious intentions she could imagine Tom having, and, in the worst case, report that unfounded suspicion to Dumbledore. And if Hermione was being totally honest with herself, she would guess Tom had worked out the practical spellwork for the reverse of that transfiguration, and had probably even tried it with live animals. That type of experimentation didn’t bother her, and was even common among magical academics, but Hogwarts under Dumbledore, as an institute for educating children, took an aggressive approach toward right and wrong uses of magic in a way that would definitely classify such work as Dark.</p><p>Hermione had to prevent anyone from taking an undue interest in either her or Tom. “You’re right, Minnie; I’m sorry. I didn’t understand the theory well enough until you explained it to me. I’ll pass along your concerns to Tom, too.”</p><p>Minerva, for her part, looked mostly placated by this concession. She was too sharp, and too resentful of Tom’s role in Hermione’s life, to drop her suspicions completely, but she would accept the deflection.</p><p>“That’s all I really had to say about Tom,” Hermione moved along, “but I do have this challenging case at work that I’d love to talk about, if you’re game.”</p>
<hr/><p>The challenging case at work had not been resolved by the time Tom was due to return from Malfoy’s place, so Hermione found herself with notes and books strewn across the living room when he entered her flat. He looked on in mild surprise.</p><p>“What’s this?”</p><p>“Oh! Hello, Tom. These are just my notes; I’ve got an irate client threatening to terminate his contract if I don’t come up with results soon. I’ll clean them up so you can sit down, sorry.”</p><p>“No,” he insisted, “I hadn’t realised. You work?”</p><p>Hermione’s jaw dropped. “Of course I work! How did you think I was affording this place?”</p><p>“I assumed your former husband,” the corner of Tom’s mouth turned down as he said the word, “must have granted you a small fortune in the divorce.”</p><p>This was bizarre. Tom was plainly jealous of her husband, but was that jealousy focused on his wealth, and not their relationship? Hermione needed to stop this conversation before it spiraled. “Look, I don’t know what you think happened, but I took nothing from George in the divorce. It wasn’t mine to take. If you’re in a mood, let me clear out so you can have space. I’m not making progress tonight, anyway.”</p><p>Tom’s expression seemed pained for a second before he resettled himself. “I can help.” Hermione was used to his version of apologizing and decided acceptance was the most reasonable route tonight.</p><p>“If you could just stack those sheets into the green folder, I can take care of the books, thank you.”</p><p>“No,” Tom corrected, “I can help with your client.” He pulled her most recent set of notes from the table in front of her and scanned them for half a minute. “You create glamours for curse scars?”</p><p>“It’s more complicated than that,” she sulked, feeling insulted that he would presume to step in and solve a month-long problem in one night, even if she could admit that he might help.</p><p>“I’m sure,” he soothed. “But it is a useful shorthand. Do you have more information about the scar?” Hermione pulled an orange folder from underneath a text and passed it to him. Inside, he would find still and moving images of the scar from many angles, a description of the cursed object (now destroyed) that had created the scar, and written reports detailing the results of diagnostic spells that healers had run. All confirmed the necessity of her expertise: the scar was fully healed and inert, just unsightly, and so the only avenue left to the client was to pay for someone to craft a custom cosmetic spell to cover it. Unfortunately, scars resulting from Dark magic were the trickiest to work with. Hermione had a flawless track record when dealing with creature scars, or scars from other branches of magic, but Dark magic was challenging. The only way to combat it was with pure Light magic, which required a caster who was both powerful and proficient in that type of magic. Most people who ended up with severe scarring from Dark magic were not capable of both.</p><p>This client was capable of neither, unfortunately. A distant member of the Black family, they had stumbled upon a cursed piece of heirloom jewelry and decided to wear it, with predictable results. Healers and curse breakers had been able to save the person, but the resultant scarring was visible and the client had been referred to Hermione. Private referrals were how she met nearly all of her clients these days, and her case load kept her solidly employed for the past three years. That was one thing she had appreciated about George: he never suggested that she stay at home.</p><p>“You would pump out enough Light magic with this charm to summon a field of patronuses,” Tom interrupted her musing. “I’ve met this person. Yes, I know they’re anonymized, but that was a well-known artifact they destroyed with their vanity.” He barreled through her objections. “He’s much too incompetent to cast something like this as a daily glamour. Anyway, the scar ate through your previous three attempts, so I don’t think more raw energy is going to do anything other than blast off his arm. Why aren’t you looking at Dark charms?”</p><p>Hermione’s face drained of blood. She had protected Tom from Minerva’s fears about Dark magic a week ago, and just an hour into his return, he was suggesting she practice Dark magic? She tilted her head forward to hide her panicked expression. Fortunately, Tom took her silence for confusion.</p><p>“A scar like this... it’s territorial. It’s trying to protect itself from being eliminated. When you put any amount of Light energy into it,” he lectured, “it will react to that magic as a threat, and because the scar is bonded to the host, it will either win or drain him completely. Or, if you actually managed to cast this latest formulation, you might beat it by eliminating the entire appendage.”</p><p>“I hadn’t finished those calculations,” Hermione pouted. She might be worried about Tom, but she would not stand for anyone questioning her proficiency. “I would have caught the mismatch and reformulated before attempting the charm on a live subject.”</p><p>“Yes, you likely would have. Let me save you the effort: this client won’t be able to beat this curse into behaving through the purity of his magic. No, you need something that the scar will play nice with. You might be able to cover it with something minor, the equivalent of a jinx, if you can create a charm that is compatible with the territorial nature of the scar. I’ve got a book that might help you understand the theory... a French witch cursed herself to deactivate an inherited blood curse. I’ll leave it for you tomorrow morning.”</p>
<hr/><p>Hermione created a working concealment charm within the week. The witch’s autobiography sold her on the theory of using Dark magic to counter Dark magic, and after finding some references on illusion and deception charms—the closest Dark analog to the neutral glamours she more routinely practiced with—she managed a solution. Tom had been correct: the final spell was no Darker or more arduous to cast than a standard tripping jinx.</p><p>However happy Hermione was to finally complete that case, she understood that Tom’s story wasn’t adding up. He had declared his love for her the first night, and though it felt genuine, he avoided further intimacy between them. He shared stories about magic he learned abroad, but none of it had been Dark until it became necessary to help her client—and the text he referenced had decidedly not been an entry-level Dark tome. And finally, after nearly two months back, Hermione still had no idea what Tom was doing when he had meetings or went out for the day. </p><p>He was hiding from her. She would no longer let him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Minerva! I enjoy bringing her in. She and Abraxas get to provide a less-nutty perspective for our two messes.</p><p>My favorite image in this chapter is the boot scene. Voldemort almost stalking out into the world with one shoe on? Priceless.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Vows and Dark Arts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I really appreciate all of your feedback on this story so far! Thank you to everyone who has left a comment—hearing from my readers is the absolute best. </p>
<p>Content warning: there is a brief mention of self-inflicted scarring toward the end of the chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hermione confronted Tom after another week without answers to her questions. She didn’t bother to ask obliquely—she reasoned that if he continued his mysterious behavior with no deviation, she was unlikely to find an explanation from a simple, “what did you do today?”</p>
<p>Tom was reticent until it was clear that Hermione could not be put off of the topic, at which point he became imperious. Still, she pleaded with him.</p>
<p>“I need some sign that you’re willing to open up to me. I told you when you came back that I couldn’t take your secrecy anymore. I spent <i>years</i> waiting for you. I—I don’t care what you’ve done. I don’t care what you tell me. I’ll still be here. Just... don’t keep me locked out anymore.” She was nearly in tears from frustration as she spoke, not that Tom had noticed.</p>
<p>“And if I can’t handle whatever you tell me,” she continued quietly, “I’ll leave. I’ll move to Toronto, or New York, and I’ll keep my mouth shut, and you’ll never see me again. I—I know I’m asking you for something precious. If I can’t be what you need me to be, I will at least give you space.”</p>
<p>That seemed to make him relent. “I—If you make an Unbreakable Vow to me, and promise not to ever speak further or work against me—“</p>
<p>“I’ll take the Vow.”</p>
<p>“Good. We can ask Abraxas now.”</p>
<p>“Right now, Tom?” Hermione fretted. As usual, when Tom committed to something, it became his entire focus. “It’s late to make a visit, we shouldn’t barge in...”</p>
<p>“He will receive us. Now get dressed to apparate.”</p>
<p>True to Tom’s promise, Abraxas received them without comment and ushered them quickly into his study, which he locked and warded. He didn’t ask for details in order to serve as bonder. If anything, he seemed to be prepared. This only served to worry Hermione further, and though she thought she had come to the right decision, she was afraid to learn just how much she had not been told.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Voldemort was annoyed by Hermione’s cleverness. It had too much to hope that the woman would be satisfied with regular attention and clear scheduling. He could admit he was out of the habit of living and working closely with other people; this miscalculation had resulted in Hermione becoming suspicious and confronting him before he had moved out of her flat. Not that he had been searching for a flat once she had accepted him into her bed—another oversight. He would need to do better.</p>
<p>But when she offered to stay out of his way, he ran a quick mental calculation. He might evade her questions for a short while longer, but within a year, he would lose her if he never talked. He might also lose her if he talked. He didn’t want to lose her. </p>
<p>Voldemort was used to having Hermione around. Their partnership was weird; he could see that. But though they had spent less than half a year together in person, she had faithfully written to him for over half a decade. Only Abraxas had written to him socially with anything approaching that level of dedication, and that man had been the one he entrusted with forwarding his mail. Abraxas was required to write. Hermione chose to do so.</p>
<p>He kept all of her letters to him—they had been an unexpected pleasure during the trials of his years abroad. They were pressed between the pages of his most precious books, marking the most important chapters. He would never admit this fact to another person, but when Hermione had been working on her mastery and writing to him about her research, he set aside time after receiving her letters to look into her topic and find the perfect book recommendation. Voldemort learned far more about charmwork in the past decade than he would have ever intended under different circumstances.</p>
<p>Plus, Hermione embodied comfort. From the moment he walked into her flat she had provided for him. Voldemort couldn’t have named most of the needs she fulfilled, but he knew he needed her in his life. Though the Malfoy guest rooms had bigger beds and nicer sheets, only Hermione knew that he slept better when she held him and stroked his hair. She was giving like that, always touching him in little ways since he had returned, as if reassuring them both that they were in the same space. </p>
<p>Abraxas had implied that this all constituted love. Voldemort hadn’t had much use for love in his life, and though he found it generally unpalatable, he knew it held tremendous power over most people. He was wary of that power—if love made people into fools, then he would avoid it. But his feelings for Hermione made him feel more in control, not less. She made it easier to not be angry. He hated being angry; he didn’t think clearly and he knew he made more mistakes, even if the anger was sometimes useful for cowing others, and he tried not to indulge in the feeling more than necessary. His ideal would have been to avoid emotion altogether, but Voldemort was a highly emotional creature, and it had been more and more difficult to avoid filling himself with anger in recent years. Hermione inspired contentedness, and so he loved her.</p>
<p>She hadn’t ever said she loved him. She used to hint at it. She had thought it, once, when he left. He hadn’t cared at the time. He regretted that. She’d written it in one letter, but he knew that she’d meant that as an expression of love for a friend. He wanted her to say it to him now, and he wanted her to mean that it made him unique. </p>
<p>So in that moment of choice, Voldemort figured he might as well choose the path that had a chance of keeping Hermione around.</p>
<hr/>
<p>On the first day of their new agreement, Hermione handed Voldemort a checklist. It was so predictably Hermione that he laughed; she did not appreciate this response.</p>
<p>The checklist was a series of yes/no questions and Voldemort obligingly responded to each in turn.</p>
<p><i>Do you practice the Dark Arts?</i> Yes.</p>
<p><i>Have you used the Dark Arts to intentionally harm another person or creature?</i> Yes.</p>
<p>...</p>
<p><i>Have you cast the Unforgiveable Curses?</i> Yes.</p>
<p><i>Have you killed a person?</i> Yes.</p>
<p>The list continued in this manner for some time. Voldemort was surprised to say that he didn’t respond in the affirmative to every one of her questions (<i>Have you sexually assaulted a person? Have you forced another person to kill?</i>). Apparently, he could be a worse person. Once completed, he handed the parchment back to a visibly anxious Hermione for her approval.</p>
<p>She didn’t touch or talk to him for the following two days.</p>
<p>On the morning of the third day, she emerged from her bedroom looking clean but distraught. He expected her to continue the charade of ignoring his presence, so Voldemort was surprised when she took his hand gently and led him to the couch, encouraging him to lie against the arm rest and then drawing his arms around herself as she burrowed into his chest. He liked that, liked surrounding her, liked that she needed him.</p>
<p>“I’m going to try to understand,” she mumbled into his breastbone, “so you should start from the beginning.”</p>
<p>Voldemort started talking. He shared the experience of growing up as a strange boy at a Muggle orphanage, of how the kids and adults alike mistrusted and abused him because of his early manifestations of magic, and how he protected himself by weaponizing their fear. He could share this without feeling, he was so many years removed from the slights of early childhood, but Hermione murmured her reactions in response to each tiny injustice as if they were fresh. She cried for the rabbit he had killed, but she fisted his shirt tighter in the same moment. When he reached the story of Dumbledore’s visit, she huffed angrily and he knew that she was entirely opposed to the man’s treatment of young Tom. That was validating.</p>
<p>In the afternoon, once Voldemort had cajoled her into eating and stretching, she demanded he return to couch to hold her and talk. He persuaded her to lean back against him, rather than sit curled into a ball, and he wrapped his arms possessively around her waist and buried his nose in her hair as he spoke. This time, he told her about coming to Hogwarts and finding that he was still an outsider, assumed to be a mudblood by the other Slytherins due to his Muggle surname, and how most of the house bullied him due to that assumption. He told her how he would stay in the library until curfew to avoid his housemates, and how he searched there desperately for information about spells to protect him while he slept. He told her how he would sleep fewer than five hours a night that first year, needing to be the last to fall sleep and the first to wake, and how he would bathe during the lunch hour to avoid being pranked in the showers. He told her how a pitying Hufflepuff prefect had shown him into the kitchens so he could make up for these lost meals. </p>
<p>He admitted that he had almost missed the familiarity of the orphanage—that he almost contemplated abandoning Hogwarts and seeking some other way to learn magic—when winter break finally rolled around, and he was nearly alone in the castle, and he got to experience it without being afraid for the first time. He’d spent the first good birthday of his life practicing spells in the astronomy tower, eating a cake made especially for him by the house elves, and feeling real hope for his future. </p>
<p>Voldemort told Hermione about resolving to become the most powerful student at Hogwarts after that night, so that he would be as untouchable there as he had been in his last year at the orphanage. He shared that he organized study groups targeting his less talented pureblood peers, winning their trust and demonstrating his own relative strength. He told her that he charmed all of the professors except Dumbledore with his smile and careful new accent, all posh schoolboy and no rough inner-city orphan, so that they started giving him more leeway than other students. He told her that he studied so far ahead he could have taken his NEWTs at the end of third year, so from fourth year forward he appeared to understand magic effortlessly. He told her how he used his spare time starting in fourth year to master every trace of advanced magic available in the Hogwarts library and to formalise the structure of his group of peers. </p>
<p>He recalled how fourth year was the first year that he realised he was handsome. He’d known he was an attractive child, but at fourteen, others’ regard for his appearance switched from admiration to desire, and it unsettled him. He didn’t want girls looking at him, especially when some were much older than he, and he did not like that the boys treated him with envy. Most of all, he hated that his most powerful attribute at the time was something over which he had no control, something that had come from his useless, deceased parents. He recounted the first time he cursed a peer purely out of spite, rather than in self-defense or as revenge: an older Rosier had praised him about the rumors that he was having sex with various upper-year girls. Virginal Tom had lashed out in a show of power that cemented his place as the top boy of their year. Abraxas made his first demonstration of loyalty by covering up the incident.</p>
<p>This led to a discussion of how young Tom had researched his heritage in order to understand himself. Voldemort hesitated on this topic, knowing it would be too much, too fast, for Hermione to understand in full. She prodded his thigh until he would say something, asserting, “I know you would have figured out who your parents were.”</p>
<p>“I will not share that full story today; you’ve already had to absorb a lot,” he stalled, “but I can give you a choice. If you are ready to hear about the first person I killed, I can tell you half of my parentage. If you would prefer more time, we can stop here for the evening.”</p>
<p>Hermione stilled in his arms. As he had talked throughout the afternoon, she’d again shifted so that they were both now lying flat on the sofa, her front pressed to him. He couldn’t see her eyes due to the angle of her head but he could just pick up on tendrils of thought as she bolstered her courage to accept his offer. He loved that about Hermione—she applied her courage to accepting and supporting his differences. It was, in his opinion, the only good to come of Gryffindor house.</p>
<p>She had barely voiced her confirmation when he began to tell this final story.</p>
<p>“In my first years at Hogwarts, I thought that my father must have been a wizard because I knew that my mother died soon after birthing me. If she was a witch, she should have used magic to stay alive. No, don’t scoff—I still think that she is weak for dying like that. She could have birthed me in St. Mungos even if she was a squib, and at least then I would have been taken in by a magical family. She failed her child.”</p>
<p>Voldemort allowed himself a minute of silent resentment before continuing. “I found no records of a Tom Riddle—my father’s name—in the Wizarding world. My classmates insisted it was a plain, Muggle name and of course my father couldn’t be a wizard, but... I could have accepted a Muggleborn father, I think. I—I just wanted to know.” Voldemort did not recognize the cracking in his own voice, the unevenness of his tone, but they were present, because the horrors of his parentage would never truly cease to mark him.</p>
<p>“After Abraxas demonstrated his loyalty, I admitted that I had been unsuccessful in looking for my father. He suggested that my middle name sounded like something from an old family, and he lent me the Wizarding genealogy books that led me to my maternal grandfather, Marvolo Gaunt.”</p>
<p>“I’ve never heard of the Gaunts,” Hermione admitted. He huffed in some emotion that was torn between amusement and annoyance.</p>
<p>“No, you would not likely have. My mother and uncle were the last of their line, and the family had fallen into destitution due to inbreeding and poor financial investments.” He could talk about this dispassionately, he knew, but he could not stop the dawning horror on her face as she processed the implications of his words. “I seem to be unaffected by their disregard for basic biology, if you are concerned,” he assured her.</p>
<p>“For this story, what you need to know is that the Gaunt family was the last remaining blood connection to Salazar Slytherin.”</p>
<p>“You’re the Heir of Slytherin!” Hermione shouted and bolted upright, hands placed on his chest to stabilise herself. Her soft brown eyes had gone wide with understanding as she processed whatever rumors had survived to her generation of Hogwarts students. Voldemort was curious to see where that led her. </p>
<p>“So you... there was a Chamber of Secrets? Did—you said this was your first murder, and your mother is already dead when you learned about her, so—did you kill Myrtle? But—but I know there was an actual Dark creature that the professors found, and a student got expelled, though the details never matched up, I—I think I need a bit of help, here,” she conceded.</p>
<p>Voldemort hummed his agreement. “There is a Chamber. I’ve cleared out everything of use that could be taken, but it is still an impressive structure to behold. It’s incredible to think that Slytherin was able to hide it from his fellow founders.</p>
<p>“And there were two monsters that year. The acromantula you mentioned was being kept in a student’s dorm, and though that was an act of incredible stupidity, the overgrown spider did not kill Myrtle. The second monster, the one that still lives within the Chamber, was a basilisk.”</p>
<p>Hermione shocked him by punching his chest lightly and breaking into a triumphant smirk. “I knew it!” she exclaimed. “I read about the attacks that year, what little information that was available, and the petrification, the water, the nature of Myrtle’s death—it all seemed like a basilisk. I couldn’t say that to anyone, because of course it was improbable and useless conjecture by that point, but I <i>knew</i> that I had the correct answer. It used the pipes to get around, right?”</p>
<p>Voldemort smiled at the vision before him, this lovely woman who reacted so jubilantly to having her theory about the death of a schoolgirl validated. He recognized that she would have been more emotional, more outraged, if she had known Myrtle as a living person, but he adored that proof of her own correctness would always move her. He pulled Hermione back down and cradled her against his chest once again.</p>
<p>“Yes. Myrtle was in the girls’ restroom when I opened the main pipe, and the daft girl opened the stall door after hearing a monster moving outside of it just to come face-to-face with a basilisk. She died instantly and the resulting panic forced me to close the Chamber permanently,” he scowled. “Dippet wanted to shut down Hogwarts and I was still underage for another year.”</p>
<p>“Mm, it would have served you right,” she acknowledged. “Your actions did lead to the death of a girl.”</p>
<p>“No, my actions killed a girl. It was unplanned, but it was still murder,” he corrected her. Voldemort could not have Hermione downplaying the severity of his choices if she were to ever accept the full extent of what he had done in his life.</p>
<p>“Okay, murder.” The brevity of her response was defensive and childish, but at least she conceded to the correct word. “Back to the pipes—did you have to go into the girls’ loo every time you wanted to enter the Chamber?”</p>
<p>“Worse than that,” he admitted, “I not only had to go through a girls’ loo, I had to slide down a slimy pipe behind the sinks. It was so degrading that I created a spell for unaided flight in order to avoid it.”</p>
<p>“Tom!” Hermione’s enthusiastic exclamation of his birth name was precious; she said it like it was uniquely meant for him. “Wizards have never figured out unaided flight. You’re trying to tell me you became a Muggle superhero at fifteen because you didn’t like to get your clothes dirty when you were sneaking around?” </p>
<p>“I did, Hermione, and if you’re a good girl, I can teach you.” She laughed lightly in response and Voldemort stroked her back. They stayed together in silence for a long time after that. Voldemort assumed she was contemplating everything she had learned today, and he appreciated that she would treat his past with the respect it deserved. Hermione, he knew, was a rational being. Though her first reaction was often emotional, she rarely accepted that initial impulse, always choosing to evaluate and research before making a final decision—so different from him.</p>
<p>“I think,” she eventually volunteered, “it’s difficult for me to accept that this all happened while you were becoming the Tom Riddle that I heard stories about. I—I know it’s going to get worse, whatever you have to tell me. I know you’re trying to ease me in. I appreciate that,” she was placating him, “and I probably need it. But I’m afraid, Tom. You killed a girl and the school still worshipped you. What does that say about all of us?”</p>
<p>“Dumbledore always suspected me, if it’s any consolation.”</p>
<p>“I never thought I would feel that Albus Dumbledore should have meddled more, but here we are,” she responded seriously. He would allow her this much without comment.</p>
<p>The next morning, Voldemort told Hermione about murdering his father and grandparents. She didn’t talk to him for three days after that revelation.</p>
<p>They continued in this fashion for weeks.</p>
<hr/>
<p>“Please, repeat that for me one more time.”</p>
<p>“I made an anagram of my name, ‘I am Lord Voldemort,’ and my followers refer to me as their lord.”</p>
<p>“Voldemort.”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“It’s not even good French! You’re pronouncing it with a hard ‘t.’”</p>
<p>“It sounds unfinished if you don’t say the ‘t.’”</p>
<p>“And there was something wrong with Tom Riddle? That’s practically the name of a supervillain.”</p>
<p>“You read a lot of these Muggle comics, do you?”</p>
<p>“Minerva has nephews, and you’re avoiding the question.”</p>
<p>“Tom is so... plain.”</p>
<p>“Tom, I hate having an unusual name. No one pronounces it correctly if they see it in writing first, and it overshadows me. You <i>define</i> the name Tom. It comes with no expectations, and you’ve so completely inhabited that name for me that when I hear anyone say Tom, you’re always my first thought. No one bothers to even think the name Hermione unless it’s got something to do with me, but I get to hear reminders of you all the time.”</p>
<p>“Mmm. I still think Voldemort has a certain gravity.”</p>
<p>“Is that a pun? Because it references flight?”</p>
<hr/>
<p>He tried to arrange for a day away after about a week and a half of their ongoing conversation, but Hermione refused to let him out, citing concerns for the enduring safety of Wizarding Britain. He made do with sending Lestrange a threatening owl.</p>
<hr/>
<p>“But why work at a shop, Tom? You surely could have been Minister by now if you had started there right after school.”</p>
<p>“You worked there; you know why.”</p>
<p>“Hmph. Fine, but you have to admit that you were perfectly suited for working your way up the Ministry ladder.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I could have. I would have also had to start near the bottom of that ladder while my schoolmates were handed managerial positions due to their families and wealth, inverting the power structure I established in school. I could hardly get away with cursing my boss for assigning me to your typical office drudgery. Did you know that everyone at the Department Undersecretary level or above in the Ministry is married? Most also have children. Would you condemn me to marrying one of the pureblood heiresses and burdening me with children for the sake of being Minister for, what, a decade at most?”</p>
<p>“That doesn’t explain the shop.”</p>
<p>“The shop existed outside of the system. It gave me access to families and artefacts that I needed.”</p>
<p>“Artefacts?”</p>
<p>“That’s for another day.”</p>
<hr/>
<p>Voldemort put off the horcruxes the longest. He could share stories of murder—Hermione typically needed some time after those, and she never explicitly offered forgiveness, but she always came back to continue learning. He could share experiences of Dark magic—if anything, these were the stories Hermione most enjoyed, as he would bring out his books to reference a theory or demonstrate a spell if it wasn’t too dangerous. But his Slytherin sense of self-preservation told him that intentional damage to his soul might be her breaking point.</p>
<p>Unfortunately, he ran out of other topics.</p>
<p>“You haven’t told me about these artefacts. I know something’s going on,” she demanded in their third week.</p>
<p>“To what are you referring?” He put on his most earnest face, but she scowled and refused to be fooled.</p>
<p>“Your uncle’s ring, for one. Whatever it is that you found while working at Borgin &amp; Burke’s. Ravenclaw’s diadem, since you dedicated months of camping in the woods to track it down. That’s at least three.”</p>
<p>“Five, actually,” he corrected her. “The ring and the diadem, yes, but also a locket from Salazar Slytherin, a cup from Helga Hufflepuff... and my teenage diary.”</p>
<p>“Your diary isn’t an artefact, Tom, no matter how highly you think of yourself.”</p>
<p>“It is, Hermione,” he bristled, “if it is used as the container for incredible magical power. Tell me: have you heard of a horcrux?”</p>
<p>“No,” she admitted quickly, “which means it must be very Dark.” Hermione no longer seemed to need the comfort of a full-body embrace while they talked, but she still sat so that they touched. Like with most revelations of new magic, she turned toward him eagerly, anticipating a lecture and demonstration. For the first time, he shrank back and put distance between them even as he watched her expression grow troubled.</p>
<p>“It is part of the Darkest field of magic that someone can practise. It provides a form of immortality for the person who creates a horcrux through a ritual... that tears apart the soul.” Voldemort felt his heart rate increase and he realised that he was actually afraid of this moment and of her reaction. His detachment from the reality of his words would not last much longer.</p>
<p>“The—the soul?”</p>
<p>“My soul,” he confirmed as he reached for her hand. Hermione recoiled from his touch, moving backwards along the couch until she hit the armrest at the far end.</p>
<p>Her voice was small as she responded. “You did something heinous—“</p>
<p>“Murder, yes,” his mouth was dry and his words came out raspy.</p>
<p>“—and tore apart your soul and put it in objects. Five objects. Six different pieces.”</p>
<p>“Seven. I—I want to have seven pieces.”</p>
<p>“You’re planning to do it again.”</p>
<p>“When—when I find the correct vessel.”</p>
<p>“Horcruxes. Trading your soul for immortality.” Her expression was dazed and faraway, and in his own panic, he moved forward to reach her, to try and pull her into him. She’d always let him, wanted him, needed him to touch her and embrace her before, and if he could just hold onto her until she had time to think about this—</p>
<p>She ran. She sprung up and bolted out of the flat, wand in hand, and the crack of apparition shook the unlatched front door in her wake.</p>
<hr/>
<p>“Thank you, Abraxas, for generously hosting me.” Hermione was seated on the green divan in Abraxas’s parlor at Malfoy manor, drinking tea that had likely cost more than her monthly grocery allowance. If nothing else, she would enjoy a few days away from home, and <i>him</i>, for the food and drink alone. “I am embarrassed to have imposed on you with so little notice.”</p>
<p>“Of course,” Abraxas replied smoothly. “I would do as much for your... partner, and I am honored to offer the same to you.”</p>
<p>Hermione’s look soured as her gaze grew distant. “He’s asking a lot from me with his latest confession. It’s Darker than anything else, Abraxas. He’s—“ her words cut off abruptly and she hissed as she grabbed for her wrist. After a moment of pain, she panted for breath and explained, “It’s the Vow—I guess I’m not allowed to say anything further on this topic”</p>
<p>Abraxas’s expression grew troubled. He must have recognised that her concerns were very serious if Tom wasn’t comfortable with even his closest follower acting as a sounding board for Hermione. He thought while she regained her composure.</p>
<p>“It might help if you spent some time in the library while you are visiting. I’m sure that you have access to many <i>practical</i> manuals on the Dark Arts at home, but the Malfoy family has a long tradition of also keeping philosophical texts on the subject. Those may provide you with some perspective.”</p>
<hr/>
<p>While Hermione taught herself everything she could about horcruxes, Abraxas prepared himself to receive another guest.</p>
<p>“Abraxas.” Voldemort arrived the day after her. Abraxas was impressed—the man must really trust Hermione to allow her a day to calm down and come back of her own accord. Of course, the fact that she hadn’t done so in that time indicated that he might need to procure an unregistered portkey to North America in the coming week.</p>
<p>The Malfoy patriarch settled Voldemort in his personal receiving parlor, which was further away from the library than his office. He must prevent the feuding lovers from encountering each other before they were ready—if she would ever be ready.</p>
<p>“What brings you here today, my Lord?” Abraxas should not know that Hermione had left, but he could offer the uncommonly-used title to soften up Voldemort before what was bound to be an awkward conversation.</p>
<p>“She’s left, Abraxas. She ran out and hasn’t come back.” Voldemort looked... deflated, really, like a dough that had been left out to proof for too long. He appeared not to have changed his clothes in a day, and judging by the bruise-purple circles under his eyes, Abraxas guessed that Voldemort hadn’t slept, either. It was an odd image, Voldemort sitting on Hermione’s undoubtedly tawdry sofa all evening, waiting for her to come home. </p>
<p>“Hermione, sir? Have you been... fulfilling the task that necessitated your Vow?”</p>
<p>“For Salazar’s sake, Abraxas! Are you incapable of speaking plainly?” Voldemort thundered at him, dark eyes flashing bright red.</p>
<p>Generations of good breeding had rendered Abraxas incapable of speaking plainly, actually, but Malfoys had more self-preservation instinct than anyone and Abraxas was always a quick learner. “Tom, please forgive me. Hermione left. She hasn’t come back yet?”</p>
<p>“No.” At least his eyes were no longer red.</p>
<p>“What upset her?”</p>
<p>“Me.” That response was almost despondent. Abraxas stifled the urge to roll his eyes.</p>
<p>“Obviously. But you also upset her by not writing to her for four years and she forgave you that, so try to be more specific.”</p>
<p>“I have done some very Dark magic.” Abraxas knew this firsthand, so he said nothing and waited for further elaboration. “It... could be called unnatural. It’s magic that takes from me in exchange for power, and I told her about it, and she ran. I didn’t want to tell her. I should not have told her.” Voldemort was actually holding his head in his hands, elbows on his knees, in a position recognizable to every man who has ever seriously hurt a loved one. </p>
<p>Abraxas hadn’t seen him look so human since he was still called Tom.</p>
<p>“You needed to tell her,” Abraxas confirmed in a tone that was halfway between the way he gave fatherly advice to Lucius and the way he had talked to Tom when they were still children. He wasn’t sure which was more appropriate—this situation seemed to call for a friend, but he was talking through the type of emotional experience that most people had in their twenties, not their forties. “She asked you for honesty and pledged to leave if her request proved too much for her to accept. Hermione would not have settled for half of your truths and you should know that.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want her to leave,” Voldemort admitted.</p>
<p>“I doubt she wants to, Tom. She would not have gone to the length of taking an Unbreakable Vow if she did. She made that Vow to prove her sincerity.”</p>
<p>The two men sat quietly for some minutes. Abraxas wondered if Voldemort needed the time to put together the series of words necessary to communicate these thoroughly normal concerns. </p>
<p>“I won’t apologise for what I did.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Tom. What could possibly make you think she expects an apology? She knows who you are. She needs time to figure out what this means about her.” And that was the truth, really. Abraxas could see it in her eyes last night: Hermione was afraid of what it meant for her to be Voldemort’s partner.</p>
<p>“You and I—we come from Slytherin families. The Dark Arts run in our blood. We learn how to accept them as an essential part of magic early in our lives. Hermione is—“ Abraxas avoided associating Hermione with the term <i>mudblood</i>, and actively rephrased here, “—comes from Muggles, and was introduced to our world by wizards with a much different philosophy of magic. She needs you to disentangle practicing Dark magic from...” and Abraxas was caught again. How to end the thought? Voldemort certainly hurt others, did evil deeds, and truly, he was an example of exactly why the Dark Arts had such a negative stereotype. “...being uncivil.”</p>
<p>It was a lame ending, and Voldemort responded with an unpleasant, low chuckle. “Surely murder constitutes a lack of civility, Abraxas. No, there is no disentangling to be had. I am the Dark Arts and all of their sordid connotations. She handed me a checklist on the first day we talked, full of trite questions like ‘have you intentionally hurt others’ and ‘have you cast an Unforgiveable.’ It was so earnest. She made herself a quaint little list of all my sins, should she ever need a reminder.”</p>
<p>“Fine,” Abraxas admitted, conceding that Voldemort really had no virtues with which to redeem his reputation. “She still needs time to process what this means for her. When she comes back, encourage her to embrace the complexity of magic, even if her Gryffindor mentors liked to pretend that doing so is a betrayal of all that is good. And for the love of Merlin, bathe, change your clothes, keep her kitchen stocked, water her plants. The last thing she needs is to come home and have to take care of you.”</p>
<p>And though this statement made Voldemort’s face darken, he seemed to understand the message and took his leave.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Abraxas tolerated two more days of Hermione moping around the Malfoy library. He entrusted her favorite elf, Dobby, with ensuring she ate, slept, and bathed, but after half a week without progress, he suspected she needed a larger shove than the elf could provide.</p>
<p>“Is it time for tea already, Dobby? I thought we might try the lemon biscuits tod—oh. Abraxas.” Hermione blinked at him owlishly, looking up from a book that most definitely contained poetry, not magical theory.</p>
<p>“Oh, indeed. I see you’ve found my mother’s sonnet collection.” Abraxas settled elegantly on an armchair with a sweep of his robes. He summoned Dobby and murmured instructions for tea while she righted her hair and put away her many books. Once the tea service arrived, he resumed their conversation.</p>
<p>“He visited me the other day. You know that he’s waiting for you. I can tell that you plan to go back. What is keeping you here?”</p>
<p>He watched as she hung her head in defeat, fiddling with the handle of her teacup in avoidance of the question. He delicately cleared his throat to prompt her. </p>
<p>“Can I ask you about your relationship with Tom?”</p>
<p>Abraxas sipped his tea so he would have time to consider her question. He would normally say that his friendships were private matters, and his relationship with Voldemort especially so. Voldemort would not hesitate to torture anyone who violated his privacy. However, Hermione was nearly his wife—certainly the closest Voldemort would ever come to having one. “You can ask. I will entertain your questions, but I may refer you back to him if it seems inappropriate for me to answer.”</p>
<p>“That’s fair, Abraxas. Thank you. Er—do you really call him your lord?”</p>
<p>Abraxas stifled a smile. “I primarily refer to him as ‘sir.’ The ‘lord’ affectation stopped seeming as acceptable once we all entered adult society.”</p>
<p>“I think he’d like you to call him ‘lord.’”</p>
<p>“Be that as it may. Others have dropped even the title of ‘sir;’ he has not complained yet.”</p>
<p>“Why—why do you—are you—“ Hermione growled, actually growled, in frustration at her inability to properly phrase her question. “Friends might not be the right word, but why are you still friends with Tom?”</p>
<p>“It is not quite the right word, no. We were friends when we were young teens, but our relationship is far more complex now.” Abraxas pushed his long platinum hair back over his shoulders as he tried to explain something he never would have asked himself to someone from such a different part of society. “You need to understand that whether I like a person or not has very little to do with whether I preserve an acquaintance. I like you, but we only met when you married into my world, and we remain friends because you are connected to Tom.” Abraxas was proud of how effortlessly he could switch between modes of address for Voldemort; he had always been the most discreet of Voldemort’s followers. “To reassure you: I do like Tom. He’s more intelligent than anyone I have ever met and he makes interesting requests of me. I also know how to placate him. I have not been on the wrong end of his wand since we were teens. </p>
<p>“However, I choose to keep him close because I think he will do something important with his life. Unlike some of his other followers, I never expected that to happen quickly. I <i>do not</i> want to be perceived as having lost faith in him when he reaches that point, both for the sake of myself and my family, and because I am an ambitious man.”</p>
<p>“And it doesn’t... bother you, that he’ll probably grab power by doing something terrible?”</p>
<p>“Of course it bothers me,” Abraxas responded in offense. “Do you think us Slytherins incapable of morality?” He was gratified to see her blush and mutter an apology. Truly, people from other houses could be so judgmental. “I cannot rationalise any of his harmful actions. I can argue that I would like to have influence in whatever he does. I want my family to weather societal changes. I find the current parties in power tiresome. I worry that they are not serious about the risk of cultural influence from the unrest in the Muggle world. I do not think Tom is a savior and I have hopes and fears for what form his pursuit of power will take.”</p>
<p>“I don’t think I can stand by and let him hurt people, or let him hurt himself,” she admitted.</p>
<p>“Then you need a portkey to Canada, Hermione. He will hurt others. He will hurt himself.”</p>
<p>“But I don’t want to leave him. What if I could—I don’t know, stop him?”</p>
<p>Abraxas laughed. His laugh, like everything else about him, was beautiful and refined, and he enjoyed using it to great dramatic effect. It certainly seemed to work on Hermione in this moment, who sunk back into her seat. “Tom cannot be stopped. He wants to be powerful, he wants others to recognise his power, and he wants to earn his power on his own terms. If Tom could be placated by conventional power, he would have become Minister. If Tom did not care for recognition, he would have never come back from his travels abroad. No, he might be able to be diverted from starting an open war—please believe that neither you nor I wants that outcome—but he will always need a goal that fulfills those three criteria.”</p>
<p>That should give the brunette something to consider. Abraxas was pleased enough with the conversation and decided to bring it to a close. “I enjoyed sharing tea with you, Hermione. As you appear to have completed your research, I expect you will want to leave within the next day or so? Please do let me know if you need any assistance procuring a portkey. I would be happy to provide it.”</p>
<hr/>
<p>She arrived at her flat that evening. Tom was sitting on the couch in his pyjamas with a closed book in his lap, and she wondered if that was all he had done for three days—sit and stare at a wall. She hoped it was.</p>
<p>Still, she didn’t have the clarity of mind to get into a long discussion with him tonight, so she wordlessly readied herself for bed alongside him when a thought struck her: she now knew more about the state of Tom’s soul than the state of his physical body.</p>
<p>“Tom,” Hermione whispered his name hesitantly, “let me see you.”</p>
<p>He stilled from his usual nighttime routine, back still facing her. Hermione approached him like she would a wild animal, padding softly to stand behind him and slightly to his side. She prompted again, this time placing her small hand on his arm: “You’re still hiding from me. Please, let me see you.”</p>
<p>And finally he turned, just his head, to look down into her eyes. He looked... nervous. Though Hermione had grown comfortable with his presence, wearing only a sleep shirt translucent with age to bed most evenings, Tom had steadfastly preferred conservative pyjama sets. She knew he was hiding his body from her, even as his weight slowly returned to normal. She was afraid to face it. But this was the final barrier between them, and she needed him to voluntarily lower it.</p>
<p>So she poured her compassion into returning his gaze, hoping to have enough courage for the both of them to overcome their fears. Testing this, Hermione moved closer and placed a questioning finger on the top button of his shirt. He nodded jerkily, once, no longer meeting her eyes.</p>
<p>Hermione unbuttoned him efficiently, not pausing to examine his skin as she revealed it. She wouldn’t do that until she could get him to feel more comfortable. She continued, making short work of his trousers after another unsteady nod of permission, then herded him to lie on his front on her bed. Only then did she begin to look at him.</p>
<p>Tom’s entire back side was covered in welts from shoulder to thigh. It stole her breath. Some looked very old, though she knew they hadn’t existed in 1961, suggesting that he had taken these injuries almost immediately after he left. Others looked almost fresh, half a year old at best, indicating the severity of this continued condition. She ran her hands lightly over his back, his waist, down his rear and thighs, stopping on the delicate and thin skin behind his knees. At each part of his body, she let her fingers rest much longer than necessary, rubbing light circles or stroking back and forth to reassure the silent and still man that her touch was based in affection, not clinical calculation. Even the back of Tom’s calves and the soles of his feet had numerous small scars, some from curses, others clearly the result of hazardous environments, though none so gruesome as the lumpy tissue marring the rest of his back. </p>
<p>Hermione took a moment to steady herself—this was a horrifying sight, but to react with fear would upset Tom, and their relationship was too unsteady to survive that. He was incredibly tense. She knew he must have heard some of her thoughts, but he was giving her a chance to prove herself, in light of what had now passed between them. Feeling fear was not preferable, but understandable; reacting to his vulnerability by showing that fear as revulsion would be unacceptable. So she drew on her strength and sat at the foot of the bed facing him, legs pulled up under her. </p>
<p>She took his nearest foot into her own lap. It was scarred, yes, and the tendons and bones were much more visible than was generally pleasant to look at, but she kept her eyes on his foot. Hermione had always admired his long, narrow feet with their elegant arches and pronounced instep, somehow simultaneously delicate and masculine. She ran her index finger down the back of each of his long toes, which twitched in response; he was still ticklish. His heel looked faintly dry and his nails were trimmed. This was a familiar foot. This was Tom’s foot. She held the lone appendage for some minutes, just pressing warmth into him, before raising it to her mouth and placing her lips on his arch.</p>
<p>“Roll over, Tom. On your back now,” she urged.</p>
<p>Tom looked back over his shoulder at her in a manner that Hermione could only describe as shy. He had been unresponsive as she explored him so far, and though less tense than when he initially undressed, he seemed reluctant to further expose himself. Hermione kissed each of his toes in turn and begged, “please?,” until he grunted and acquiesced. </p>
<p>She took stock of him and immediately noticed that he was half erect, and judging by the light blush on his chest, embarrassed by that fact. She busied herself rearranging the bedding so that he was ensconced by pillows. He looked incongruous, a badly-scarred, middle-aged man lying in a plush but otherwise unremarkable bed. Tom Riddle looked like he should be sleeping on either a straw mattress in some hellish shack or in silk sheets on an impressive, antique bed. Her pedestrian accommodations were too plain for a man like him, but at least Hermione could make him comfortable.</p>
<p>Once he had been suitably fussed over and his embarrassment had faded, she began exploring his body from the new position. She started with his familiar feet, quickly running her hands up his legs to feel the scars there. She couldn’t say what had caused the welts lacing over his back, but she could clearly identify the straight, neat scars along his inner thigh as self-inflicted: likely intentional bloodletting for ritual use, judging by the magic he had admitted to practicing. Those tiny scars scared her more than the entire map of uneven flesh on his back. She moved on quickly.</p>
<p>She skipped up to his shoulders, moving to lie alongside him. She watched his chest rise and fall in time with his breathing and from her new position she could more easily see the ridges of his ribs. He was still so skinny. She traced her fingers across the length of each one, pausing to rub a circle onto his breastbone with each completed pass. His chest and stomach were lightly scarred, like the backs of his calves, excepting one large gash that cut across half of him just above his left hip. That gash was unnaturally purple and ugly, but not from poor healing: it practically pulsed with active Dark magic. Hermione cupped it in her palm.</p>
<p>She wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, side-by-side but not entwined, her arm slung over his middle to hold him, before he brought his own hand up to squeeze hers. He’d had his eyes closed, not acknowledging her presence, when she felt his palm come to rest over her wrist and tighten for the briefest of moments and then withdraw. </p>
<p>Tom’s body was different. The scars, the loss of weight—they all changed the physical reality of being intimate with him. He had been good-looking but not remarkably so in his 30s, whereas he was now ugly. He still had good features, though they were no longer impactful enough to overcome the way that Dark magic had changed him. But he was the same in small ways, in ways that made Hermione feel like her long-ago familiarity with his body was still present, and she realised that even if the implications of his changed form scared her, even more so when she looked at him rather than just heard his stories, she was still attracted to Tom. She smiled into his shoulder and made a decision.</p>
<p>“Tell me—Tom, tell me if you need this to stop.” His eyes opened in confusion at the same time that she brought her hand down from his side to encircle his cock, still half-erect from his own nakedness and her closeness. When his expression settled back into blankness and he made no move to object, she started to stroke.</p>
<p>He hardened quickly. Unlike their sex years ago, Tom was silent as she rubbed him, though the flush of pink and red returned to his chest. He had closed his eyes again, breathing heavier, as she kept up her quick pace and gentle hold. It felt different, and Hermione wasn’t particularly aroused, but... she needed this, she realised. She needed to see Tom experience pleasure, she needed to know that he still did, and with this realisation, she invested fully.</p>
<p>After stripping off her own shirt and pressing her bare breasts to his side, Hermione gripped his length firmly. She had always enjoyed how hot he felt, almost unnaturally so, like even this part of Tom couldn’t stand to be normal. She pulled her thumb down his slit to check for moisture and found a bead of precome waiting, which she used to lubricate a twist of her palm on the upstroke. His breath hitched and she repeated the motion twice more, enjoying the irregular stutter of his breath and the way his face crumpled. Hermione resolved to finish it quickly, then, tugging hard on his cock with each pass and paying special attention to the bundle of nerves near the head with her fingers. He came with a soft groan, his hot seed bursting from between her fingers to land on his own chest and stomach.</p>
<p>It was so different. Tom had been loud when he came, always growling or shouting his release. He had also been full of energy, usually grabbing her roughly or thrusting with wild abandon to mark his dominance, his ownership of the situation. This Tom had barely moved his hips as he came. But he had looked so... relieved, and still so scared, so ashamed, when he finished, and Hermione knew in that instant—</p>
<p>“I love you, Tom.”</p>
<p>She might have expected a reaction like earlier, eyes snapping open or a catch in his chest, but none of that occurred. Instead, he whispered a request: “tell me again,” and she did.</p>
<p>“I—I still love you. I am <i>in</i> love with you. Fuck it all, after everything, you should know that I love you.”</p>
<p>And the shame, embarrassment, and fear—every vulnerability he had shared with Hermione tonight—melted off of him. Tom looped his arm around her, pulling her onto his chest so that his cooling release smeared between them, and they slept.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I’ve read a lot of Tom x Hermione fanfic, and one of the key moments in the pairing is the moment where Hermione first decides to commit to Tom, despite knowing he’s bad news. There’s a lot of variations on this moment, but I have not yet read one where Hermione cements their alliance with an awkward hand job, so please accept my contribution to the pairing canon. </p>
<p>Also, I picture the Myrtle murder like true crime podcast for the students in Hermione’s era. </p>
<p>Leave a comment and let me know what you think!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Morning After</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter is roughly the halfway mark in this fic, judging by what I’ve written so far and my planned ending, if you all were curious. I think I’ll end up with 12–13 chapters. Just have to reconcile Tom and Hermione’s long-term sensibilities—no sweat, right?</p><p>Thank you to everyone who has left a comment or kudos or bookmark so far. I very much appreciate your support. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Voldemort was hot and sticky the next morning. This distressed him in the disorienting first moments of waking until he felt the warm, naked weight of Hermione still pressed onto him and recalled the events of last night. It hadn’t exactly been his vision for resuming their intimate relationship, but if anything, it may have been gone better than he hoped. She’d seen him and still wanted to please him. In the deep, unacknowledged recesses of his mind, he’d been resigned to quick, clothed trysts until she—well, no need to worry about that. She’d said it last night, anyway. She loved him. She was <i>his</i>.</p><p>So he was mildly upset when her morning greeting was to say, “You shouldn’t have scars.” He glowered at her for spoiling his good mood and she backpedaled fast. “I—I mean to say, most of these scars normally wouldn’t exist. Even if some of these are a decade old, a mediocre apothecary’s scar balm should reduce their appearance. I assume you have, at some point in ten years, applied a scar balm.” She continued talking only after he gave a curt nod. Hermione was funny like that, always expecting explicit responses when she talked. “Right. Something changed about how magic affects you. Healing potions demonstrate reduced efficacy—how about healing charms?”</p><p>“No effect. From any healing magic,” Voldemort admitted tersely. He had noticed this years ago: healing magic had stopped working as it should, eventually becoming completely ineffectual no matter the power he applied when casting. He used exclusively Dark healing spells, which were much riskier in the hands of an inexperienced caster. Voldemort made sure to gain plenty of experience on less valuable bodies before attempting anything on his own. “The Dark Arts offer alternatives, but the field hardly emphasizes scar reduction, as you well know.”</p><p>“Yes,” she answered absentmindedly while she surveyed his face. “I could make you a glamour to hide almost everything, if you want it. I think you might want to find a way to treat the root issue, though.”</p><p>Voldemort frowned. “I don’t need to hide behind a glamour.” He didn’t like to acknowledge how he looked. The scars were not, strictly speaking, an intentional and desired effect of his magical practice, but to give in to vanity on that count would only lead to a deep sense of dissatisfaction. He typically ignored the issue, staying conservatively covered in all circumstances.</p><p>Hermione seemed to read his distress, because she stroked his arm comfortingly and placed feather-light kisses on his chest. Thus soothed, he offered a concession. “The horcruxes are tied to it. Healing became less effective with each new one I created. I was already experiencing this when we met, but the last three entirely eliminated my healing response. They—they caused some of the damage, too.” Voldemort wasn’t completely open to discussing the horcrux creation process, even with Hermione. It was deeply personal in a way that he couldn’t describe—intertwining his soul with his magic and another’s life and blood was intoxicating and private. He wanted to give some context, though, that she might comprehend the scope of the problem she wanted to fix. “The purple scar, on my side. It’s my newest. I started... ripping apart during the ritual for the last horcrux. As if I was being torn in half. I couldn’t stop to heal until the ritual was complete, or the scarring would be less... extensive.”</p><p>At his disquieting admission, she buried her face into his armpit. It was part of his body he rarely bothered to think about, just the place where arm joined body, but any part of him that Hermione touched felt electric. He wanted her to lose herself in his undoubtedly disgusting armpit and derive comfort from his closeness. Voldemort needed her to need him.</p><p>“You could meet them. The horcruxes,” he clarified at her muffled sound of confusion. “They’re... well, have you ever used a pensieve?” He felt her head shake against the underside of his arm. “Shame, that would have been a useful comparison. My horcruxes store a set of memories from around the time of their creation. It’s the manifestation of the soul fragment. The fragments can interact with someone within those memory spaces. You might learn something if you meet them all; it would at least tell you more than whatever vague garbage is written in books.”</p><p>“Okay.” Her acceptance sounded hesitant.</p><p>“You wouldn’t meet them all at once. I don’t like to keep them in one place, anyway... we could spread it out over a month, if you like.” Truthfully, Voldemort was terrified that she would reject these parts of him. They were his soul, the essence of his being, and no matter how Dark the concept of the objects, he thought that he really wanted Hermione to embrace them.</p><p>“That’s probably for the best,” she admitted. It wasn’t a rejection. “I am curious to... meet them.” Definitely not a rejection. “But I am nervous about being around such Dark magic. It could harm either one of us.”</p><p>It could, he mentally conceded. There wasn’t much documentation of what happened when someone other than the creator interacted with a horcrux, but Voldemort had determined that the objects had at least mild influence over the mental states of others in close proximity. He, of course, was able to control them, as they were mere vessels for parts of himself, but he knew that even a fraction of himself could easily manipulate another person. Still, he could communicate with the horcruxes before showing them to her and tell them to behave. It should be safe.</p><p>“I’ll take care of it and I’ll be with you,” he promised her. He would—he would do anything to make her face the separate fractions of his soul. It was a heady thought: she had never experienced all of him before. When they met, he already had two horcruxes. Now that she had come so far, learned so much about him, Voldemort was swept into near-fantasies about how Hermione would be even more strongly tied to him after the experience. This was what lovers did, right? Bare their souls to each other?</p><p>And anyway, it would be a brilliant excuse to leave the flat and meet his contacts again. He had lost a month of planning already.</p>
<hr/><p>“You should know that I made this when I was only 16,” Tom opened. He was holding an object—a small, leather-bound notebook—close to his chest, half tucked under his arm as though he was unwilling to reveal it. Hermione thought he might actually be embarrassed. </p><p>“So I should expect it to want to talk about girls and quidditch?” Hermione jibed with a smirk on her face. Tom’s cheeks went slightly pink in the way that anyone’s would when confronted with memories of their teenage indiscretions. </p><p>“No,” he insisted, too quickly, “I wasn’t that kind of boy at all.” Hermione was not convinced. Even Tom must have had youthful vices. “I just—this part of me might be less... mature than you are used to seeing from me. I don’t want you to have expectations based on who I am now. This contains a part of me that was still two decades away from meeting you.”</p><p>Hermione offered him a reassuring squeeze, wrapping one arm around his middle and leaning her head against his shoulder. Truthfully, she was curious to meet young Tom. This was the Tom that inspired her own childhood admiration, the one she had never had a chance to meet due to their difference in age. <i>Was he as smart and as handsome as he was rumored to be?</i></p><p>“I don’t want you to fuck my horcrux,” Tom grumbled, and Hermione laughed in shock.</p><p>“Tom! How could you suggest such a thing? You were only 16!” she chided, despite her thoughts being the reason for his upset. It was worthwhile just to enjoy his clear jealousy for his younger self. “I hope you don’t think I would trade you in for a younger model.” She punctuated her remark with another hug and a light kiss on his reddened cheek, but she was too eager to explore this horcrux to engage him any further.</p><p>It was strange—Hermione found the entire concept of horcruxes terrifying, and the fact that Tom had mutilated himself five times to create them made her sick, but when she divorced the objects from their implications, and thought of them as snapshots of Tom Riddle’s personality and memories, they were almost exciting. Hearing Tom recount parts of his life had helped her begin to trust him, but it also made Hermione sad that she couldn’t have been around to go through those events with him. By communicating with the horcruxes, she thought she might be able to connect with Tom on another level.</p><p>Tom had told her that he would need to introduce her to the two horcruxes that he had created prior to their acquaintance. He explained that the pieces of soul had been severed from the main, and they were only aware of events after their creation if someone told them. She wasn’t sure how one talked to an object, even a slightly-animate, soul-possessed one, but he assured her that she would understand once she was touching them. He also assured her that his first horcrux would be a good place to start the experience.</p><p>“The easiest way for you to do this would be if you sat at the table and wrote,” Tom was saying. “If it wants to spend time with you, it will pull you in—like a pensieve—and you can meet and talk to the soul shard ‘in person,’ so to speak.”</p><p>“Just to confirm: I won’t cause any permanent damage by writing in this, or by talking to it? And if something goes wrong, you could protect me from lasting harm?”</p><p>“I am fully in control of my horcruxes,” he assured. “And the charms prevent the diary from taking any permanent marks, no matter how much ink you use. Go ahead; write in it. I explained the situation before I brought it here.”</p><p>With that confirmation, Hermione jumped in.</p><p><i>Hello, Tom. It’s Hermione. We haven’t met yet, but I would like the chance to speak with you if you’re interested.</i> </p><p>She watched her words apprehensively, wondering what would happen. Next to her, Tom murmured in approval of her deference. Suddenly, her ink faded from the pages and was replaced with writing in Tom’s own hand.</p><p>
  <i>Hello, Hermione. I would very much like to meet you. Would you touch your quill to the page?</i>
</p><p>And she did. As soon as the inky nib hit parchment, she felt a tumbling sensation, like she was somersaulting forward from her seat, but instead of hitting the hard wood of the kitchen table, she kept falling into space until she met something soft and distinctly not a part of her apartment. She opened her eyes and found herself sitting at the foot of a green bed, surrounded by six similar beds—must be the Slytherin boys’ dormitory. Leaning against the wardrobe near her was a very young Tom.</p><p>“Oh—<i>wow</i>.” He was fucking gorgeous. Definitely too young, of course, but breathtakingly handsome even as a teen: his hair was styled in the loose waves that he still favored, but his pure-black hair held no streaks of grey and the cut completely suited his image as a perfectly posh schoolboy. His high cheekbones were much the same, but his skin was radiant and smooth and a perfectly even pale tone, contrasting strikingly with the darkness of his hair and deep, midnight-blue eyes. He had just a little baby fat left on his cheeks, not enough to make him look puffy or plump, but enough to complement those sharp cheekbones and prevent any impression of sunkenness. Perhaps most changed were his lips. Hermione had never really considered Tom’s lips; they were lips, they were fine, they felt nice when he kissed her. She thought that was about the extent of what lips should be. But as a young man, Tom’s lips had been amazingly red, almost unnaturally so, and it should have been off-putting but instead it served to frame his smile and draw attention to his mouth as he spoke. Which he was doing now, and she was staring at him stupidly—<i>shit.</i></p><p>Tom smirked, clearly smug about having this effect on another person. “Yes, I had noticed that my future self is somewhat less attractive than I am now. Or, than I was? Language is so difficult when you’re a preserved soul fragment,” he lamented. It did not seem sincere. “You’re a pretty thing, certainly much better than he deserves with how he looks. Well, you are a bit mannish—“ teen Tom gestured to her short hair and attire of altered men’s clothing as she made a noise of protest, “—so perhaps you scared off other suitors.”</p><p>Hermione wasn’t sure what to retort first. “Things change in thirty years! I’m not mannish! I find your future self plenty attractive, and he certainly has a better attitude than you, brat!” Why was she so defensive about the opinions of a teen boy?</p><p>“Tsk, Hermione. Tom assured me that you were a woman worth entertaining and I would hate to have to report back negatively about our time together.” Right, she was defensive because he was an absolute arse. “He didn’t tell me much about the future when he visited. Would you oblige me? What am I doing in your time?”</p><p>“Wait—I came here to learn about you. Can’t you ask him yourself?” Hermione wasn’t sure whether she could get in trouble for telling Tom about... Tom, but it seemed like the type of risk that should concern her. Managing the knowledge of different parts of your own soul seemed confusing.</p><p>“A trade, then. If you answer my question, I will answer yours.” It was only fair, but Hermione felt put-out because she hadn’t expected the horcrux to have its own motivations. Tom was sharing them with her willingly, why couldn’t they accept that? Seeing no other avenue forward except to leave, and not being totally sure how to leave of her own accord, she decided to accept the deal.</p><p>“Fine, but I want you to answer my question first.”</p><p>“Which is?”</p><p>Well, Hermione hadn’t thought that far ahead. She scowled as Tom gave her a taunting grin, ever more potent on his unmarred, angelic young face, and scrambled to put to words her desire to <i>know</i> the young man. “I’m curious about—what do you do for fun? Who are your friends? What is your favorite part of Hogsmeade? Favorite place in the castle? Just—what are you like, at this age?”</p><p>“That’s more than one question, Hermione,” he scolded in the way he might tell off a first-year for running in the halls. “I will be generous and accept the sentiment, but only because Tom warned me that you might be Gryffindorish about this meeting.” Great, now she had proof that her Tom had conspired with his soul shard.</p><p>“I am not your average Hogwarts student, as you know. This memory of Hogwarts doesn’t contain a recreation of the quidditch pitch, for example, though I certainly attended some matches. I do have a memory of Honeydukes in here... I did not want to spend eternity without chocolate.” That admission made Hermione soften a bit toward the black-haired boy. Her Tom still loved chocolate; it was the only sweet he insisted they keep stocked in the pantry. “And I will show you my favorite place in the castle; mind the shift.” Hermione did not mind the shift in scene as her surroundings swirled in a blur before depositing her, still sitting, onto the hard floor of a Hogwarts corridor in front of a worn tapestry depicting dancing trolls. It took her a few moments to orient herself, though Tom was happy to condescendingly explain, “We are in the seventh-floor corridor that houses a special room referred to as the ‘Come and Go’ room.”</p><p>“I know it!” She huffed indignantly. This Tom was doing a fine job of exhibiting his main self’s famous ability to swing between moods. “I’ve been in here, it shows up as whatever you need. You’re not the only student who learned secrets about Hogwarts.”</p><p>Tom gave such an excessively self-indulgent smirk that Hermione actually dropped her head into her hands, because, of course, Tom had learned the ultimate secret about Hogwarts and this diary was proof of that fact. He let her stew for a minute before continuing the tour.</p><p>“I have a particular version of this room that I consider my favorite, though all of its forms are enjoyable.” He paced three times then opened the newly-revealed door to show... junk. Piles and piles of junk. Hermione followed his gesture into the room to look around, wondering if the junk was just a cover for something else. It was not. The entire room, which was much larger than any incarnation of the room she had ever seen before, was wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor, filled with absolute trash. She guessed it must date back to the founding of Hogwarts, there was so much stuff, and the room must just get bigger any time something is added to it. Looking around in the mountains of detritus, she saw the strangest assortment of things: cast off clothes, student desks, school supplies in various stages of disrepair, what looked to be props or decorations from past holidays, and so many books. Some objects were huge, which made her wonder how anyone had carried them up to the seventh floor. Some objects, she discovered as she peered into a lidless trunk, contained piles of other, unrelated objects that must have been abandoned at different times. Hermione found the entire prospect of this space overwhelming.</p><p>“Most of this is trash,” Tom conceded in response to her obvious bafflement. “But people get rid of things for all sorts of reasons, not just because they’re broken. This room has provided for me when no one else did. Wizards don’t tell Muggle-raised students that you’ll break quills every week when you’re still learning to write with one, and I found replacements here. If a potion ingredient was easier to process with a knife on the ‘optional supplies’ list, I spent an hour in this room until I found one. I did not realise how little money was provided for destitute students until I was already at school. I worked—tutoring, summers, whatever I could take—my first few years, but this room was the real reason I started to fit in.”</p><p>And so Hermione was charmed again by the handsome young man. He cleared some boxes and a broomstick off of a ragged settee and gestured for her to sit with him. “Does that give you a picture of my life as a student?” She nodded mutely. “Please, do me the favor of telling me: what has become of me?” She hesitated and he urged her on. “I cannot change it, and I bear no ill will towards you for sharing anything unpleasant. I only want to know what has become of me, given the path I chose when I created this object.”</p><p>Really, that was sound reasoning, if a bit precocious when coming from a teen boy, so Hermione resolved to speak honestly with him. “You’re—well, you’re between jobs, I suppose. After school ends you take a job as a clerk at Borgin &amp; Burkes,” he seemed unperturbed by this revelation, which came as a relief to her, “and you work there for the next two decades, almost.” This did seem to shock him, though he quickly schooled his features back into neutrality. Young Tom clearly did not trust her the way his adult counterpart did. “We met just before you quit that job. You did a lot of, hm, influence-gathering while you were working as a clerk. You told me that you attended a lot of society events and secured pledges of funding as you planned to study magic abroad. You made one more horcrux in school,” Tom nods as if he had already been informed of this fact, “and you collect objects for two more through your job. You do go abroad—nine years—and you’ve just come back a few months ago, relative to my time. You made three more horcruxes with those two objects and one additional piece while you were gone. I know you want to do something big now that you’re back, and I know that you’re talking with your old schoolmates like Abraxas Malfoy, Thoros Nott, and Edmund Lestrange, among others. I—I don’t know what you’re planning, to be honest.”</p><p>The teenage Tom Riddle thought for a long while after she shared this information, clearly comparing his expected trajectory at age 16 to the lived reality that Hermione had just laid out. She knew it was rude to stare, but it was hard to look away from this version of Tom when you were in the same room as him. Hermione didn’t particularly like this boy’s company, though she caught flashes of the man he would become in his personality and mannerisms, but she knew that she would have been completely infatuated with him if they had been students together. Her own teenage self would have stood no chance against a boy as attractive as this Tom was and smart as she knew Tom to be, even if he was arrogant. Her infuriating need to prove herself at that age would have meant she would have accepted almost any attention he sought fit to throw her way.</p><p>He brought her back from her musings by speaking more solemnly than she had yet heard. “I think it is important that you find out what Tom plans to do. I did not expect to wait until my forties to build power, and I am... concerned about the ways in which that might impact my actions.”</p><p>With that confusing comment, he took Hermione’s hand and placed a gallant kiss on her fingers. “Until next time, Hermione.” </p><p>She spun up and out of the diary unexpectedly, landing back in her own flat in the same chair as she had left from, seemingly unmoved. Tom had relocated to the couch in her absence where he sat reading a periodical—<i>Potions Quarterly</i>, it appeared to be. </p><p>“You’ve returned,” he commented with a spark of amusement that lightened his dark eyes. “Heeded my advice, I hope? That boy is a charmer.”</p><p>She scoffed at him though her pink cheeks gave away her actual thoughts. Thankfully, Tom seemed happy that he his soul fragment had an effect on her and he seemed to have trusted that she was not interested in a teenage boy. “Yes,” she admitted, “you were devastating at that age, I can admit that. You were also a prat, though! You didn’t warn me that you would be so full of yourself.”</p><p>He laughed as he stood up and approached her. Hermione couldn’t help but smile at him in response—her Tom wasn’t the handsome boy, or even the handsome man one would have expected based on young Tom Riddle, but in her opinion, he’d matured into the best parts of his early personality. He was still mercurial and very sure of his own intelligence, but he’d significantly toned down the cockiness and false charm that she had just discovered were quite annoying. </p><p>“Thank you for sharing this with me, Tom,” she mumbled into his chest as he pulled her into a welcoming embrace.</p>
<hr/><p>Voldemort came home from returning the diary to its resting place to find a slate chalkboard dominating one wall of the flat’s living room, a pristine pack of Muggle chalk and a cloth eraser sitting on the affixed tray. The wall had always been blank, like most of her post-divorce flat, and though the space could have used some visual interest, this wasn’t his first choice.</p><p>“Hermione?” He called out for his missing troublemaker. “Is there a reason you decided to recreate Hogwarts in our home?” Voldemort did not notice the slip of his tongue as Hermione emerged from the bedroom at that instant with a comb stuck halfway through her hair.</p><p>“Tom! You came back sooner than I expected. Do you like it?”</p><p>“Er—“ This was a gesture for him? Why?</p><p>“I know you’re meeting with people again,” Hermione nagged, and Voldemort wondered if this was what it was like to have a wife. “And after everything, I think you need to stop keeping me out. I don’t want to go with,” she clarified quickly—and good thing, because bringing Hermione to meet the likes of Nott would end poorly... for Nott, if he couldn’t behave, “but I want to know what you’re thinking. You have me working on understanding your horcruxes, so while I do that, you can compile notes on everyone you meet. We’ll compare in a month or so. What do you think?”</p><p>Voldemort considered. Hermione already knew things that could hurt him, if they got out. She’d made an Unbreakable Vow to not interfere or cause him harm. She had to leave the country if she decided to back out of their arrangement. It could work. </p><p>He wandlessly and wordlessly set three pieces of chalk to listing names and observations on the board. “Fair enough.”</p><p>“Well!” She smiled broadly. “We’ve christened the War Room.”</p>
<hr/><p>
  <i>T. Nott. Unmarried, no children. Sadistic shit, will pay for the chance to torture (and he can pay). Strong blood purity ideology. Nott Castle in strategic location along Northern coast.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>c E. Lestrange. Married—flirtatious wife, he is jealous and touchy at society events. Two adult sons, one married to a Black: look into them. Gambling debt to C. Brown in Leicester, addt’l debts to unnamed half-bloods—find them. Substantial financial resources despite debts, suggest ending gambling before he pisses those away. Strong supporter of pureblood intermarriage (see: daughter-in-law Black).</i>
</p><p>
  <i>A. Dolohov. Widower, no children. No notable financial resources. Magically formidable: keep close or neuter. Particularly sadistic tendencies toward women. More strongly dislikes Muggles than believes in blood purity.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>C. Black. Married (wife is Rosier’s sister, get her on board), three daughters, one excommunicated. Eldest daughter married to Lestrange son—look into that. Likely need both families to gain either one. Not heir to Black fortune, need to recruit families the two daughters marry into. Useless in a fight, financial and political backing only. Fanatical blood purist, like all Blacks, especially with middle daughter turned ‘blood traitor’ by marrying Muggleborn. (Who had she been betrothed to? Find out.)</i>
</p><p>
  <i>c O. Black. Married, two underage sons, both pre-Hogwarts. Financial heir of Black fortune, court for funding. Fanatical blood purist, as is his cousin-wife (she remembers that you’re a half-blood and hates you for it, need to fix). Will need to be strong-armed, target C. Black first.</i>
</p><p>...</p><p>“What does the lowercase ‘c’ indicate?”</p><p>“What? Oh, I had to use the Cruciatus on that person.”</p><p>“Lord, help me. Forget I asked.”</p><p>“So you’re using my title now?”</p>
<hr/><p>Just one day of writing had almost filled the single slate, and Hermione came back two days later with chalkboards for the other two walls. Apparently, there were Muggle stores where anyone could just buy these things. She claimed half of one for her own use, setting up her client work and horcrux notes on the nearest side table, but otherwise left him to enjoy the space.</p>
<hr/><p>Tom seemed to appreciate her conversion of the living space, and in his high spirits, he decided to introduce Hermione to the second horcrux, the onyx and gold ring, before a full week had passed.</p><p>“I remember that you used to always wear that ring,” she recalled with some fondness for their younger days. Tom had explained that it was a family heirloom soon after they had first met, and though recontextualising that distinctive ring as a Dark artifact took away some of its sparkling charm, she couldn’t forget the old times entirely.</p><p>“Yes,” Tom confirmed, twisting it off his finger but not yet handing it over. He stroked the heavy gold band subconsciously, seemingly unwilling to part with the heirloom. This horcrux had to have particular significance, beyond housing part of his soul or being an item of great power. Perhaps it was the family connection, or the fact that he had used his father’s murder to fuel the split, but Hermione was sure that this ring carried more emotional weight than any of its companions. She shivered in anticipation of confronting it.</p><p>“It never... spoke to me, when I touched it in the past. Why not?”</p><p>“I was in control of it when I wore it. This part of me... enjoys the thrill of hiding in plain sight, I suppose. You will need to be careful with it.”</p><p>“Have you talked to it yet, like you did with the diary? Explained what we’re doing?” Hermione’s sudden nerves demanded that she confirm the relative safety of her situation before making any move to take possession of the ring. She figured that Tom would be able to save her from any harm that part of his own soul should might cause, but she wasn’t willing to test the circumstances of that salvation unnecessarily. </p><p>Tom nodded and hissed something to the jewelry in his palm for good measure. She had only heard him speak in parseltongue a handful of times since he revealed the ability and she found the language entrancing when he spoke. It was if his voice was more suited for talking to snakes than to people. After a minute with no response—could the ring respond?—he pinched the ring between his fingers and motioned for her to offer her hand.</p><p>“I’m going to—actually, on second thought, you might not want to start by wearing this. Here,” he used his other hand to gently turn hers so that the palm faced up, “just hold it to start. I’ll be watching.”</p><p>Hermione felt the weight of the large stone and heavy band fall into her small palm, and she reflexively closed her fist around it. There was no sensation, other than holding a ring, for the first few seconds, and then it hit her: a wave of intense and indescribable feeling. The feeling wrapped around her almost tangibly, and she could sense it cataloguing her presence. It combed through her short hair, prodded her thighs, and swirled around her magic, investigating the creature that was Hermione, which Tom had surely introduced. It was taking her measure, and with dawning dread, she understood that it was not impressed.</p><p>The feeling started to burn with anger, radiating outward from the ring still clenched in her hand, which was heating uncomfortably. She tried to soothe it, to find some mental equivalent to the gentle physical touches that always made Tom relax, but the heat and the rage were building around her, applying pressure—</p><p>Hermione cried out as her hand was wrenched open and the ring dropped from it. She opened her eyes—when had those closed?—to find a concerned Tom looking down at her, wiping tears from her face. <i>I was crying?</i></p><p>“You were crying,” he confirmed. “I should not have exposed you to the ring. I—I made a miscalculation.”</p><p>“It was so angry,” her voice came out in a whisper of breath. “It held so much pain.”</p><p>“That... was the only horcrux I have ever made while upset. It is also the last one I made before meeting you. I promise that the next three will be more receptive.”</p>
<hr/><p>They took two weeks before trying the next horcrux, as Tom needed to make a brief trip abroad to retrieve some books, but Hermione was grateful for the pause after the ring. Tom assured Hermione that this one had been made within a day of when he first left, and so it would have only positive feelings toward her, but she nonetheless made him cast a bevy of protective enchantments on her person before she would touch the golden goblet.</p><p>Still, she dreaded interacting with a horcrux again and asked Tom to keep his hand on it as she made first contact. She almost gave up entirely when he indicated that she should mime drinking from it.</p><p>“Hermione, your soul doesn’t actually live in your digestive tract.” His dismissal did little to allay her fear. Gryffindor courage demanded she not back down from a challenge, though she did hold her breath as she mimed drinking. </p><p>The falling feeling resolved when she found herself in her old flat. There was the ratty couch she’d dragged through her entire twenties, covered in the wool throw her mum had bought her—what happened to that throw? It was a surreal homecoming. Hermione had never felt particular nostalgia for the small one-bed on a side street near the intersection of Diagon and Horizont, but the location had been impactful enough for Tom to preserve in a horcrux, and... that was precious, really.</p><p>Tom appeared in the room by striding through the front door. He always had entered like that. She’d keyed her wards to him after only a couple of weeks, but he never apparated directly in. She took stock of the man in front of her.</p><p>Hermione had been too harsh on his appearance when they met, she concluded. Now that she and this Tom were roughly the same age, she appreciated just how much better he looked than most of her peers. Men she had known from Hogwarts had, on the whole, done much less to stay fit and polished than Tom. His use of the Dark Arts and creation of two horcruxes—well, three, though the third didn’t seem to affect him in this memory—had marred his looks, but Hermione thought she might have let his reputation from school sway her initial evaluation. There was always the possibility that her current feelings toward him were swaying her in the opposite direction, but...</p><p>“Hello, Hermione. As much as I enjoy being stared at, do you think we could eventually move along?” Tom took a seat on the old sofa, effectively forcing her to refocus. “So, did I come back and share this with you?”</p><p>“Erm. Y—yes, your present-day self is out there,” she gestured lamely, not sure where this space was relative to reality, “waiting for me to return.”</p><p>“Good,” Tom confirmed. ”This horcrux was held in trust for you, to be presented if I didn’t return within 15 years. I’m glad that wasn’t necessary.”</p><p>That thought made her queasy. She tried to imagine discovering the truth about horcruxes in this alternative universe where Tom wasn’t around and she hadn’t heard from him in a decade. Better not to pursue that.</p><p>“Oh, calm down,” he dismissed. Her feelings must have shown on her face. “The diary was to be released to Abraxas after twelve years. I doubt it would have come to you to revive me.”</p><p>She wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or upset that Tom had trusted Abraxas more than her. “So do you... have questions for me?” Hermione couldn’t tell what this horcrux wanted from her. It was the Tom she had known best, so she wasn’t particularly curious to ask him anything, but he seemed equally disinterested in leading the conversation.</p><p>“Uh, not really,” Tom conceded. “I was very forward-looking when I made this, and my life was in a state of major transition. I’m not interested in what happened to anyone I left behind—I severed all those connections—and I trust that, seeing you here, I managed some version of my planned magical study. Either way, I can’t change it now.”</p><p>“Yeah, pretty much. You are reconnecting with some of those old contacts now, so perhaps cutting ties entirely was the wrong choice, but you’re right. It’s already done.”</p><p>Tom made no move to say anything further and Hermione stayed standing. After a few more beats of silence, she couldn’t handle it any longer. “Were we really this awkward?”</p><p>“I think so,” Tom confirmed. “I think of you as decent company, but our thing is also pretty casual. The sweater really took me by surprise. Has that changed?”</p><p>“Yes,” Hermione couldn’t say without blushing. “We’re essentially living together now, though we’ve never talked about it. It wasn’t your plan; I kind of talked you into it after hearing your original plan. You seem to like it.”</p><p>“Hm.”</p><p>Tom sat in silent contemplation, not looking at her. It was so weird to watch part of him evaluate a different part of him. The sheer idea of having discrete parts of one’s soul was still absurd and unsettling to Hermione, but even more so for someone like Tom, analytical as he could be, to be the subject of the partitioning. She wondered if piecing together the main soul fragment’s current motivations was each horcrux’s favorite hobby.</p><p>“I think Tom may have kept his feelings for you with his main vessel.” Her face must have registered her confusion, because Tom elaborated, saying, “He must have some sentiment for you, if he chose to give me memories of your home, but I primarily register the facts of our acquaintance. I associate no particular emotions with it.” Tom cleared his throat and twisted to look at her directly. “He must care for you a great deal to consciously keep those emotions out of a horcrux. If he had placed them all with me, they may not have remained once you were absent from his life.”</p><p>She wasn’t sure whether that was intended to be a comfort or a warning.</p><p>“Take care of him, Hermione. He preserved your importance, which makes you one of his weaknesses,” and he dismissed her into the upward sweep of exiting a horcrux.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I always enjoy a good “Hermione falls in love through a horcrux” fic and though this one isn’t that, I couldn’t resist introducing each of them. (The remaining two will be in the next chapter.) It’s sort of like she’s meeting the parents, except Tom doesn’t have parents, he has deranged soul splinters living in priceless objects. But like... emotionally, it’s the same for him.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. A Complete Soul</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter is tightly tied to the last, so I encourage you to skim Ch. 6 again if you need a refresher on our horcrux/plotting situation.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Can I open the chocolates Abraxas sent?”</p><p>“Mmm,” Hermione answered Tom mindlessly, her focus on the parchments in front of her. She had resolved to complete her caseload as she worked through meeting all of Tom’s horcruxes so that she could take a sabbatical from new work for the rest of the year. As his plotting progressed, she wanted no distractions to keep her from contributing. </p><p>It was only half an hour later, when Tom presented her with a half-empty box while muttering about fruit fillings, that she realised with a start, “These were my birthday gift!”</p><p>He had managed to disappear from the kitchen, of course.</p><p>“Tom! You—is one of these half-eaten? <i>Is that wet lump the other half?</i>” She had tracked him to the bedroom and waved the mutilated gift in his face, as if that might rematerialise her missing caramel creams.</p><p>“Cherry,” he grumbled by way of explanation. It was not sufficient, and she contemplated throwing the gross half of the cherry-filled chocolate at his head. She wouldn’t, of course—it would have been childish—but he wandlessly vanished it just to be safe.</p><p>“You drank the last of my good tea yesterday. Consider us equal,” he groused.</p><p>“How can you even taste the difference through all of that cream and sugar?” It was repulsive, really, how much Tom doctored his tea when they were in the privacy of their own home.</p><p>“You bash the bag, sod off,” Tom rolled his eyes. </p><p>Their lives had settled into a comfortable rhythm. Hermione was either working on her freelance caseload or compiling notes about horcruxes, and Tom, who made frequent short trips during the day, documented his growing network of contacts on their living room walls. He’d started using sticking charms to attach parchments to the walls in order to document minor players or longer thoughts, saving board space for the most interesting and important characters. She liked to read the names as he added to the boards each evening, when he would answer a question or two about the individuals.</p><p>It was almost cosy, when she ignored the Dark magic and blatant plotting. Tom was an intelligent, attractive (at least to her), warm body who pushed her intellectually, engaged her in fulfilling conversation, and contributed to household chores. And she had said she’d loved him.</p><p>She did—she revisited the declaration most days and concluded that it held true—but weirdly, despite their mutual confession of feelings, their relationship didn’t feel like a settled thing. He still did not initiate sexual intimacy, though he had become somewhat less reserved when she did. He also hadn’t repeated his claim of love. Well, to be fair, neither had she, but she’d said it most recently, so she reasoned that it was his responsibility to reciprocate next. She ignored the voice that told her that statements of love were not meant to be tallied. There was a tentativeness about their relationship, as though both were waiting for the next major trial, the next stressor, to be successfully passed. In the meantime, Hermione would enjoy the comfortable domesticity.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <i>C. Yaxley. Auror, DMLE: Ministry, limited influence. Rec: Lestrange, helped cover a misused cursed object after bribe. Half-blood? Unlikely blood purist, more likely power/money motivated. (Promise promotion within Ministry?) Could he give access to more dirty aurors?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>A. Rookwood. Unspeakable, DoM: Ministry insider. (Which specialization?) Rec: both Blacks, likely raging blood purist. Questions: prone to conspiratorial thinking? Works poorly in hierarchies? Need to understand motivation for turning on Ministry.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>I. Karkaroff. Durmstrang-educated, mastery in England (Potions? Confirm). Rec from Dolohov: drinking buddies, family friends. Questions: political leanings? Intent to stay in UK?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>F. Greyback. Werewolf, practically feral. Rec: Nott, Dolohov (separately), apparently common enforcer for Knockturn deals. (How old is he? Where was he ten years ago?) Strongly hates L. Lupin, Head DRCMC, rumored to have infected Lupin’s son. Questions: able to be leashed? Any motivation other than brutality? Loyalty to werewolves—asset or risk?</i>
</p><p>“I don’t recognize any of those names.”</p><p>“I’m working through recommendations from my initial contacts. They primarily offer a specific talent, though at the cost of higher liability.”</p><p>“They seem like terrible people.”</p><p>“Everyone on these boards is a terrible person.”</p>
<hr/><p>Hermione felt absurd placing a priceless and ancient piece of jewelry on her head as if she were a child playing princess, but Tom assured her that was the correct interaction for the horcrux, and she obliged.</p><p>The tumbling, falling feeling resolved quickly, leaving Hermione in what could only be called a dire shack. She peered out a lone, dingy window to see... nothing but trees, lots of trees. Abandoning the outside view like a bad habit, she turned to survey the inside of the building. It contained a small straw mattress that seemed to be missing half its stuffing, though it was covered in a pile of warm-looking wool blankets, a solid and unremarkable table with two chairs, and a wood-burning stove with a hob on top. Along with the lone window and a door leading outside, this constituted the totality of the shack. It was not a comfortable place.</p><p>Tom walked in through the door at the end of her evaluation. This Tom was older than the Tom in the cup by a few years, at least, and younger than her own by about the same amount of time. Though he was significantly less scarred and skinny than her own Tom, his hair held the same amount of grey, and his deep frown indicated that he was not exactly excited to be here. She wasn’t sure if the frown was specific to her presence or more generally a reaction to existing for eternity in this set of memories.</p><p>“Hermione. You look...” Tom looked her up and down while humming, surveying the series of changes that had taken place since he last saw her. “...masculine. What was wrong with your long hair? Is that what women look like these days?”</p><p><i>Wow.</i> “You can fuck right off, Tom. You don’t look so great yourself, and it just gets worse from here on out for you.” Hermione felt like she was talking to the grumpy father of 16-year-old Tom given his reaction to her appearance. </p><p>He huffed and heaved himself into one of the wooden chairs. It was not a comfortable seat, but he managed to convey insouciance as he draped himself artfully upon it. She pulled the other chair out, screeching along the dirty wood floor, and flung herself into it much less artfully.</p><p>“Fine, I take your point.” This was as much an apology as almost anything Tom would offer, but she wasn’t feeling much more charitable toward him. “I haven’t spoken to another living person for about five months. Fuck Albania, fuck this diadem. I should have left it for some other bloody idiot to hunt.”</p><p>“But you did find it,” Hermione prompted. “That’s why we’re both here.” Tom only nodded in response, clearly not wanting to discuss this burden further. “What year is it for you?”</p><p>“It’s... 1966, I think. Should be. Almost 1967.”</p><p>“Oh,” realisation dawned on Hermione. “The last time you wrote to me was in 1966.”</p><p>“The letter about your mastery...” his words trailed off, an uncharacteristic response for Tom, but he didn’t seem to have the endurance for his usual conversational style after so long without practice. Still, the meaning was clear.</p><p>“You wrote to me with pen and paper.”</p><p>“I needed you to read it more than I needed to use Wizarding stationary.”</p><p>“I don’t care what you write with.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>They sat in relative silence, the only noise being Tom’s boot tapping against the table leg, each thinking about what it meant to have shared a conversation about such a central part of Hermione’s life using the mundane Muggle supplies of their childhoods. For her part, Hermione was glad he had been willing to drop the pretense—she couldn’t imagine completing her mastery if she had never received his advice. Except... this Tom didn’t know that yet.</p><p>“I finished,” she blurted, “The mastery, I finished the mastery.” He looked at her directly for the first time in the conversation, his dark blue eyes boring into her as if, by virtue of existing only as part of a soul, he could see into the souls of others. Hermione was only partly sure that he couldn’t. “I followed your advice and it worked. It... caused some issues between myself and Minerva for a while, and I think Dumbledore’s opinion of me has permanently soured, but I made it through, with your help. Thank you.”</p><p>Tom gave a slow, reptilian blink before responding. “I am... happy for you, Hermione. Thank you for sharing that with me.” They stayed like that, staring at each other for a long moment, before she felt the reverse falling that signaled her return to the real world.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <i>Ro. Lestrange. Elder brother, son of E. Lestrange, husband of B. Lestrange. Contempt toward father, influenced to strong blood purity views by wife. Seems solid, stable, potentially loyal? Young and wants to grab power.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Ra. Lestrange. Younger brother, son of E. Lestrange, unmarried. Strong bond to brother (live together), will follow him. Second son, likely to appreciate opportunities outside family.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>B. Lestrange, née B. Black. Middle daughter of C. Black, wife of Ro. Lestrange. Most fanatical blood purist I’ve met—cannot know my heritage. (Keep away from Aunt Walburga.) Rumors of Black family insanity: find Hogwarts record (Does Cygnus have it?). Magically formidable, hungry for a cause, potential for fanatical loyalty, potential for disruptive irrationality. Investigate further.</i>
</p><p>“That woman seems terrifying, Tom. These school records—how was she not expelled? She was openly torturing classmates as ‘pranks.’ You would really consider working with her?”</p><p>“And my closeted torturing of classmates is okay by you? She’s married into the Lestrange family and part of the Blacks. I could hardly ignore her.”</p><p>“I don’t—what you did wasn’t good, but you had the sense not to do it in front of teachers. She apparently couldn’t make that judgment. What if she does go fanatical, is she going to start torturing people based on her whims? You’re going to put together a political society where a member would just go off and do that at the meetings?”</p><p>“‘Wasn’t good.’”</p><p>“Ugh! You’re avoiding the question.”</p><p>“You’re avoiding acknowledging what you’ve come to accept.”</p><p>“Fine. I’m glad you made it through Hogwarts by being smart enough to only secretly torture your friends, even if it makes you an evil git, because now you’re my evil git. Fuck off, Tom.”</p>
<hr/><p>Tom hissed a command in parseltongue to open Slytherin’s locket, but as with the previous horcrux, they otherwise preceded without delay. She followed the familiar falling feeling until she found herself in a small, plain bedroom.</p><p>“...Hermione?”</p><p>Hermione turned in place and found herself standing face-to-face with <i>her</i> Tom, the Tom who arrived on her doorstep months ago. He was as deathly skinny and disheveled-looking as she remembered. Though she had been excited to see Tom when he first came back, the surprise of his re-entry into her life combined with shock about his declaration of love had muted her reaction. Now, after processing everything for months, Hermione was able to freely fling her arms around him in a bruising hug. She hadn’t been so affectionate with this Tom the first time around, but she could give him a proper reception the second time.</p><p>He returned her embrace with a laugh. “I take it that I made it back to London and managed not to upset you too much.”</p><p>“Tom, oh, you came back, and it took effort, but I know everything. We’re... we’re trying. So you weren’t upset with me when you read my letters? I never really got to ask. You—well, you did something very extreme when you saw me again.” Hermione wasn’t sure how Tom would react to the word ‘love.’ This memory might have been created just a few days before they reunited, but Abraxas Malfoy had been the person to introduce that concept to Tom, and she didn’t know whether to chance it.</p><p>“Hermione, I made this horcrux a year ahead of my original plan so that I could see you again sooner,” Tom admitted. She had figured as much was true, but it was incredible to hear from his mouth. It also made her slightly queasy to consider the implications of “making a horcrux” for the sake of seeing her, but she had become fairly adept at compartmentalising the realities of Tom’s magic and the rest of his actions.</p><p>He took advantage of her silence to guide them both to sit on the low, lumpy mattress, keeping one arm around her once they settled. She felt herself encouraged to lean against him and felt Tom press soft kisses into her hair. “I like your short hair,” he complimented.</p><p>She let out a humorless chuckle. “The part of you in the diadem did <i>not</i> like my hair. Actually, neither did Tom in the diary. You’re the only one to say anything nice about it.” She felt her face warm at the admission and her need for him to think her pretty. Hermione knew it was a petty complaint, but Tom was rarely explicitly complimentary about her appearance, and she had discovered through contact with the horcruxes that at least some parts of him were explicitly insulting. </p><p>“Forgive me,” he soothed in a low tone, stroking her curls comfortingly. “I am sure you noticed that I was in a rather bad place when I made the diadem horcrux, and I would never defend the childish opinions I held as a boy. Still, anything I said to upset you was boorish, and you did not deserve it.” He pushed her gently back so that they could face each other, and, taking her chin delicately in one long-fingered hand, he leaned down to press a kiss to her lips. His lips were slightly chapped, in the same rough state as the rest of him had been at this time, but the kiss was tender and he smelled right. She was sad when he pulled away.</p><p>“I missed you, Hermione,” Tom whispered with his forehead pressed against hers.</p><p>“I am so thankful you came back,” she admitted, eyes still half-closed and desperate.</p><p>Tom leaned in again, kissing her with more urgency this time. Hermione took the initiative to nibble his lips, pulling them apart with her teeth until she could slip her tongue inside to meet his. He gave a pleased moan and met her tongue with his own at the same time that he placed one open hand on the back of her neck to pull her into his lap. She enthusiastically followed his lead—she had missed Tom taking charge. Her own hands roamed his body, one coming to rest in his hair with the promise of yanking it just the way he liked, the other slipping through the placket of his shirt to seek out bare skin below. He urged on her explorations, deftly undoing his top two buttons before pressing her closer and down so that she was pinned to him.</p><p>Hermione groaned at contact with his erection, breaking the kiss and freeing him to move his mouth down her neck and onto her chest, where he placed wet, open-mouth kisses along her clavicle until he reached her shoulder and started moving back. She thrust her hips into him a few times, testing the pace and the contact before finding a rhythm they both liked and grinding in earnest. He bit her shoulder, hard, just as she started to feel her internal tension build, and—</p><p>And she was being yanked upward in that reverse-falling feeling that signaled a return from the horcrux, directly into the arms and scowling face of present-day Tom. At least her hair and clothing were returned to their unruffled, pre-horcrux state.</p><p>“I told you not to fuck the horcruxes,” he grumbled.</p><p>“You’re jealous! You’re more jealous of the locket than you were of my ex-husband!” Hermione was too incredulous to be upset that he obviously had been eavesdropping on her latest conversation with his soul shard. </p><p>“Of course I’m jealous,” Tom spat. “If you hadn’t already been divorced, I could have ended that relationship. I can’t end my own horcrux. You should know that this thing between us is <i>exclusive</i>.”</p><p>She wanted to laugh at the severity of his thunderous expression but she thought it might be too much for him to bear right now. She would laugh at him later. “Tom—it’s just a part of you.”</p><p>“But <i>I</i> wasn’t there,” he groused without irony. “And it’s had months to think about how to approach you, whereas I only had days. The only things it said were compliments, weren’t they? I bet that it didn’t even try to have a conversation with you.”</p><p>Hermione didn’t respond as she mentally recalled her interaction with Tom in the locket, but the dawning realisation reflected in her eyes gave her away.</p><p>“Wily bastard.” Tom snatched the locket roughly, shoving it into a mokeskin pouch in an apparent time-out. Really, as if she would have tried to go back into the horcrux for a snog.</p>
<hr/><p>The conclusion of her horcrux meetings also heralded the impending end of Tom’s initial round of social calls, and without as much work to occupy her attention, Hermione opted to tag along on one of Tom’s remaining social visits, this one to the Rosier family.</p><p>Hermione readied for the day by reaching deep into the back of her closet to find a traditional set of Wizarding robes. The particular set she selected had been purchased to defend her mastery, and consisted of a deep plum outer robe and trousers in a matching fabric, both done in a men’s style, though tailored to her smaller body. She recalled their purchase fondly: the tailors had been surprised when the small woman had approached the suiting section of the store, but they had quickly been excited at the prospect of recreating the double-breasted and high-necked silhouette popular in men’s fashion for her form. She had not wanted to face the all-male evaluation panel in low-necked witches’ robes. As a bonus, the men’s cut had not gone out of style in the past five years, and she found the robes more than sufficient for her occasional formal needs. They would serve her well when paying an official visit today.</p><p>Tom had been surprised that Hermione wanted to accompany him when he called on the Rosiers, but she quickly explained her close school friendship with Amandine and he agreed without hesitation. She figured he appreciated that he would have more uninterrupted time with Daniel. So as she buckled on dragonhide jodhpur boots and threw a black-and-tan houndstooth cloak over the whole ensemble, she felt a peculiar sense of pride, as if she were not just going out to socialise with a friend, but gearing up to aid Tom in battle.</p><p>She and Tom were received by a house elf and quickly parted at the Rosier mansion. Amandine was waiting for Hermione in the ladies’ parlor, a vision in pale blue silk that set off her long, strawberry blonde hair. Amandine had always been the prettiest of Hermione’s Hogwarts friends, and as a pureblood from the Fawley family, had been married off at the youngest age. She and Hermione rarely met alone anymore, and though Amandine would laugh and complain about the silliness of being a society wife, Hermione thought that she probably would not have traded for an alternative lifestyle.</p><p>“Mi!” Amandine greeted Hermione warmly by her childhood pet name. “Don’t tell me you dressed up to see me?”</p><p>“Di!” Hermione returned the greeting. “Of course I did; I came with someone.”</p><p>Amandine wiggled her eyebrows. “Tom Riddle, yes, I heard you were living with him now.”</p><p>“We’re not living together!” Hermione wasn’t sure why she felt the need to insist that so strongly, except that it felt scandalous, in this house so big and old as to have separate tea parlors for each gender, to admit to sharing a bed as an unmarried woman, even if she was divorced and in her thirties. “He’s... staying with me until he finds his own place.”</p><p>“Staying with you in your bed, you mean,” the redhead joked. </p><p>“Fine! Staying with me in my bed. Perhaps we are living together. But it could change—we haven’t committed to anything long-term.”</p><p>“Oh, Mi, relax! I’m hardly interested in any scandal. Anyway, it looks like George will move to officially courting Myrna Marchbanks within the month, and they’ll be married in a year, so no one will care what Muggleborn Hermione Granger does at night.”</p><p>Hermione cringed at the blatant depiction of their relative social statuses. Amandine was a very open-minded pureblood and she certainly never held Hermione’s, or anyone else’s, blood status against them, but she was prone to mindless comments about blood that displayed her total ignorance of the realities of living in Wizarding Britain as a Muggle-raised magic user. Amandine caught the reaction and dismissed it offhandedly, saying, “Not like that, love. Just that you went back to your maiden name and your marriage was so short that it will be forgotten.”</p><p>Right, then. Three years of her life, between courting and marriage, didn’t seem forgettable, and yet...</p><p>“Di, let’s drop it, I didn’t come here to talk about any of that. How are you? How’s little Evan?”</p><p>“Evan’s growing so fast. I know—so trite, but he’ll be as tall as me by 13, I think. I can hardly accept that he’s off to school in another two years. Danny thinks he’ll be a Slytherin, and I had hoped for Hufflepuff, but his father’s right. My boy is already such a charmer, I can’t leave him with the elves or he will sweet talk them into extra snacks all day. Let me show you some recent pictures!” Amandine squealed in excitement before commanding a house elf to bring the family albums. “Evan is the most adorable combination of Danny’s looks and my coloring. Look at him on a broom!” She pulled out a photo of a young boy, probably around eight years old, with a short, thin build and a high brow weaving a broom through a series of obstacles about 10 feet off the ground. It looked to be taken in the garden outside. “And here he is with his grand-mère’s crups—“ the same boy appeared, a bit older, smiling as he kissed a puppy’s downy head, “—she spoils him with all sorts of things I don’t like, but we did let him keep that puppy. Bunny, his elf, takes care of it most of the time. I think it shall go back to France when he starts Hogwarts,” Amandine confided.</p><p>“He looks happy, Di,” Hermione complimented her friend. “You must be a very proud mum.”</p><p>“I’m hardly a model mother,” Amandine said while closing the photo album in acceptance of the end of this topic. “However, it’s my favorite part of this role. Tom isn’t going to change your mind on children?”</p><p>“No, we’ve never talked about it but I would guess he wants them even less than I do.” Hermione’s decision to divorce George over children was particularly foreign to Amandine, who had tried for years before conceiving her own son. “And, as I’m sure your husband has said, Tom’s busy with creating grand plans for power and glory right now.” It felt strange, almost as if she were making light of the situation, to refer to Tom’s political activities. It really wasn’t a political movement so much as an undiluted power grab, though the shape of that grab was still to be determined. She was anxious for the end of the month to arrive, when she would get to hear his latest thoughts on the matter.</p><p>“Danny’s hinted at this and that, but we don’t discuss politics together. It isn’t my role.”</p><p>Hermione was surprised to hear this. Amandine had been the top Hufflepuff of their year, a formidable student who could have gone on to pursue further education in multiple fields. She could have easily kept up with whatever scheming or lobbying her husband engaged in. Hermione said as much.</p><p>“I could, Mi,” Amandine agreed good-naturedly. ”But it’s easier not to. We divide and conquer responsibilities in this marriage, and I trust Danny to take care of me and our son. I just hope there’s an important role for Evan to play when he comes of age in another ten years. If Tom supports Daniel’s interests and helps my baby, he has my metaphorical vote.”</p><p>It clicked, then, for Hermione. Amandine was an intelligent, capable woman, but her role as the matriarch of a pureblood household was more important to her than any of her individual desires. Hermione knew that Amandine would never practice the Dark Arts or want harmful magic used for the sake of power or politics. But it was now clear that Amandine, and likely most wives of her social station, left the unsavory dealings to other family members. Hermione had no doubt that Daniel Rosier was bargaining with Tom for the resolution of some debt or feud in exchange for the Rosier patriarch’s patronage, his wand, or both. The slate chalkboards covering her walls at home were full of exactly that sort of information about nearly every major Wizarding family, and she had never understood how all of these families could be so petty and vile. Well, they weren’t. The wives and the children were perfectly pleasant, if out-of-touch with average folks. In some families, perhaps it was the second son who handled tawdry dealings for the family, or an uncle or grandparent. However it was dealt with, it seemed likely that most families would present a unified front on political matters. And so Tom would create a strategy that appealed to the most families, or at least the families with the most money and most public presence, and they would give him any amount of power that he wished as long as he pledged to represent their interests.</p><p>She dazedly let the conversation with Amandine continue as they cycled through gossip (Minerva was off with Urquart right now), academic interests (Hogwarts had just hired Septima Vector), and upcoming social events (Hester would host an early-December ball), until Daniel and Tom interrupted so that Hermione and Tom could say their farewells.</p><p>As Tom strode in, Hermione understood the complete picture. He bowed low over Amandine’s hand as she rose to greet him, brushing his lips against her knuckles in perfect replication of conservative Wizarding tradition. Her friend blushed—actually blushed!—at Tom, as if he were the most incredible man she had ever seen. And... he was, Hermione realised. Tom stood tall and poised in severe Wizarding robes, fine black wool with black grosgrain trim cut with a high neck and asymmetric closure that emphasized the broad line of his shoulders and narrow taper of his waist. He wore his cloak styled to hang over one shoulder and clasped it with a silver pin depicting a snake curled around a sword. His greying, wavy hair was swept slightly back, still loose but not falling into his eyes. In the light of day, with his mask of absolute refinement firmly in place, Hermione noticed that his light scarring was barely visible, and the distinguished lines of his handsome face dominated. He was perfect. He was a guest in this house but he looked as though he could own it. <i>He looked like a man who could be called Lord Voldemort.</i></p><p>Tom smirked at her as soon as the thought crossed her mind.</p>
<hr/><p>Soon after that disquieting realisation, Hermione was ready to report her findings on Tom’s horcruxes. She’d read every book that mentioned the practice, met each of Tom’s creations in turn, and come away with meticulous notes and a conclusion that made her somewhat nervous to share.</p><p>“What is your report, now that you have interacted with all five of my horcruxes?” Tom’s opening for the discussion was truly a formality, just something Hermione indulged so that he could feel some agency over such a personal matter. She was the real force behind this moment, and their positions within the room reflected that: she stood, chalk in her right hand and a sheaf of parchment with notes in the other, whereas he sat on the couch as if he was the audience for a lecture.</p><p>“First: I think it would be a poor idea for you to pursue making another horcrux.” She anticipated the darkening of his expression, as he had already divulged his plan to achieve the magic number of seven, but she wanted to make sure he heard this before he could try and divert her attention. “You should know by now that I do not endorse anything about the horcrux process, least of all the murder of another, but I admit that’s not the reasoning for my assertion. Rather, I plan to illustrate to you that regardless of what the horcruxes do for your lifespan in the long-term, they’re weakening you right now, and you need to solve that before you do anything else to yourself.”</p><p>Hermione flipped the first page of her notes face down on the coffee table. Steeling herself to discuss theory with the most capable wizard of their era, she cast a last-minute dust-reduction charm on the chalk and began to draw.</p><p>She put a single small circle, about the size of her closed fist, on the slate. “This represents a typical, unfragmented soul. Note that it’s in one piece.” She heard Tom chuckle at her tautology and tried not to let her cheeks flame. Drawing six smaller circles at a different spot on the board, arranged so that they would have created a regular hexagon if connected, she said, “This represents your soul. Each fragment is a separate node on this graph. Taken together, they equal one soul.”</p><p>She turned to face him for emphasis. “What we both know is that the horcruxes do not have a window into your mind. They didn’t know anything about your life after you made them, and they had to ask me for information. We know that they are aware of and can influence their surroundings to a limited extent, as the ring demonstrated. That is, they have some mild protection mechanism. We also know that you are able to observe someone’s interaction with a horcrux through active effort, though you do not seem to have passive access to the experiences of the horcrux, correct?” Tom nodded in confirmation but stayed otherwise silent. “So we can theorise that there are no edges, which we will use to represent communication, connecting the vertices of this graph.” She gestured again to the six unconnected nodes drawn in chalk that represented his soul. “My hypothesis is that due to the lack of passive connection, if one of your horcruxes was at risk, damaged, or destroyed, you would not receive any indication of that fact.”</p><p>Tom remained silent and non-responsive, wearing the blank mask that she so rarely saw from him when they were alone. It worried Hermione and so she fiddled with her chalk, voice a bit less strong, as she continued. “One could test that hypothesis with various experiments, but as the cost of such an experiment would, at worst, constitute the destruction of some part of your soul... I don’t think it’s worthwhile.” She cleared her throat softly. “I think we should assume that any or all of your horcruxes could be destroyed without you knowing.”</p><p>She gave him some minutes to process this information. It wasn’t good news, of course. Tom would only have chosen to trust his immortal life and soul to this magic if he thought it made him stronger, and here she was, claiming that horcruxes were actually just a different set of tradeoffs. She watched his eyes, unfocused and unblinking, until they finally snapped back and indicated his renewed attention. She wished he would say something, even if just to tell her off or disprove her theory, but she soldiered on through the presentation.</p><p>Flipping over two more pages of notes, she turned back to the slate to elaborate on the diagrams. “The interesting thing about a whole soul, here, is that it is a single-node graph, which, by definition, is complete. Euler—“</p><p>“The astronomer who lived with Muggles?” Tom interjected, and she was relieved that he was already familiar with the academic.</p><p>“—yes, he was also highly influential in Muggle mathematics. He provided the foundation of our knowledge about graphs and their connectedness, which is fundamentally at issue for your soul. Anyway, an unsplit soul, being a single node, is inherently connected to itself—no need to add edges in the graph. It is already complete. Your soul is split, but has no connections to itself—there are no edges between the vertices. For your soul, in its current form, to have the same properties as an unfragmented soul, we need to create a complete graph.” At this, Hermione drew a line connecting each on the small circles in pairs, until every one was connected to every other one. “That is a complete graph with six vertices. It should have the same properties, mathematically, as a single-node complete graph—the walks between nodes are just length 1, not 0. So if we find a way to connect your soul back together, even if all six parts live in different physical spaces, you should be able to mitigate the downsides of the horcruxes.”</p><p>“I’ll cast wards and warning charms on all of them,” he swiftly concluded.</p><p>Hermione bit back a sigh: she had anticipated that Tom would try to solve this by just applying strong magic. She turned another page over in her notes and started drawing again, this time creating a second six-node graph where one node was connected by edges to the other five nodes, but those five were not connected to each other. “This is the structure you’re proposing. You have a connection to each horcrux but the graph is not complete; they are not in communication with each other.</p><p>“If you want to check that your foot is still connected to your leg, you can either wiggle it directly or you can touch it with your hand, yes?” She watched his perplexed nod with some satisfaction. “If your foot goes numb, wiggling it won’t tell you anything because you have no sensation in the foot. However, you can still use your hand to touch it.” He no longer nodded, and the furrow between his brows deepened, but she could tell he was still following based on the look of intense concentration in his eyes. She erased one of the lines on the second graph, leaving a single vertex disconnected from the other five. “If your wards and alarms were deactivated, however improbable that may be, you have no other way to communicate with that part of your soul short of tracking down the physical container. It’s the same situation as you’re in now. In other words, wards, alarms, any standard magical protection—they’re all just hurdles for someone determined to destroy your horcruxes. They leave you fundamentally unprotected against the eventuality that some wizard or witch would have the talent and the luck to silently dismantle your spellwork and gain access to your soul. No, you need to complete the graph so that your soul fragments all feel each other from a distance and function as if they were a standard soul. That way, if any one edge in the graph is removed, there’s still a path between each vertex. You will still be able to sense the fragment without the direct connection to your main body, and therefore protect it.”</p><p>She took a deep breath and turned to the last page of her notes, knowing that this next part would seal his reaction to the entire presentation. “You could repair your soul, restoring it to its original form in your own body, which would create the single-node complete graph. There’s only one way to undo a horcrux and repair the soul, as you know: remorse.”</p><p>“I have no interest in that path for two reasons,” Tom cut in quickly. “I neither feel remorse for my actions nor want to return to being mortal.”</p><p>“Right,” she accepted easily. Tom might have been surprised at her acquiescence, but Hermione was far too smart to have expected that he would go to these lengths only to undo his effort based on her wishes. “So the alternative would be to create a new ritual that doesn’t undo the horcrux process, but creates a novel bond between the pieces of soul. Once the soul pieces can function as a unit, I think you should see a return of many of your lost abilities. Healing magic should work again, the extreme feelings tied to particular horcruxes should equalise, and you should experience better control of your emotional faculties.” Hermione was very desperate to avoid saying the phrase “mood swing” in this meeting.</p><p>“There may be additional, unanticipated impacts, as well,” he admitted. “I haven’t had an unfragmented soul since I was a boy; I cannot honestly say that I remember the experience.”</p><p>She nodded. “I think it is unlikely that rejoining your soul will negatively impact you. Unlike the remorse path, which utilises emotional vulnerability as a method of healing, what I’m proposing would likely not necessitate additional exposure. Your soul will still be more weakly connected than if it had never been fragmented; you’re not recreating a whole soul. However, the theory is sound.”</p><p>Tom seemed satisfied, standing and approaching the board to clap his hand on her shoulder. “You haven’t applied the theory to derive a ritual or magical practice yet, correct?”</p><p>She shook her head. “No. I can handle any charmwork, though I know I will need to spend time researching runes, arithmancy, and spiritual magic. Soul magic is rare enough that I thought I might augment it with blood and love magic, which are also used for bonds.”</p><p>“I can manage anything you would need with runes,” he offered, “and I can pull together old texts on spiritual magic, which I imagine would be hard to find otherwise.” Tom took a step closer to her, moving his hand to her far shoulder and pulling her into his side. “This is good work,” he admitted. She blushed in joy at his forthright praise. “And you did it for me. Even—even though you don’t like the horcruxes.”</p><p>“Oh, Tom... I don’t like the fact that you made horcruxes, that you murdered people, or that you damaged your soul. But as for the objects themselves, I care deeply about them. They’re a part of you. I would do—much more than this to protect you.”</p><p>“Is that a promise, love?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The magic theory is obviously all invented, but I enjoyed getting some use out of my rusty graph theory. I know there’s different approaches to whether Voldemort noticed his horcruxes being destroyed, but my reading of the text is that he was not aware, and really, that’s a huge oversight on his part.</p><p>Thank you for your comments, kudos, and continuing support!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Professor Tom</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is probably my favorite chapter of the fic. It’s a little shorter than the others, but it’s only long scene, and I’m very happy with the flow.</p>
<p>Also, YSK is officially going to be 13 chapters long! We have an end in sight. I post meta for each chapter on my tumblr, same username as this account, if you’re the type who likes to read that sort of thing. :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The month of preparation had come to a close, and on a chill autumn Saturday, Hermione and Voldemort convened in the War Room to discuss his findings.</p>
<p>The chalkboards were filled with his notes, with additional comments on parchment affixed to the surrounding wall space with sticking charms. He’d even taken over her board space last night, erasing the remnants of their horcrux discussion in order to render the personal sigil he had designed. Snake twisting through skull: intimidating and distinctive. She admired his linework silently as he transfigured the coffee table into a lectern.</p>
<p>Hermione had put on his emerald sweater this morning to ward off the cool drafts through the flat, and Voldemort took a moment to appreciate her appearance. Her short, dark brown curls, lighter than his own original hair color by a few shades, were fetching when paired with the rich green fabric. He thought back to his own boyhood, spent with so many of the men named on these slates, and wondered if they had ever felt this level of correctness when presenting their partners with quidditch jerseys and house scarves. Maybe he should dig up an old scarf... he wanted Hermione to always wear something of his. It was especially appropriate for her to surround herself with things belonging to Voldemort today, of all days, when they would start plotting <i>together</i>. She’d confirmed earlier this week that she had closed out her final client account for her freelance research. The last part of her life without him was finished. Whatever happened next, she would have done with consideration for him.</p>
<p>“So,” he gathered her attention by tapping his presentation notes on the lectern, “the day has arrived. Over the past few months, I’ve re-established or initiated contact with many potential allies through the Slytherin network. These men, and they are primarily men, constitute a majority of the wealthy and influential families in Wizarding Britain, and though by no means an exhaustive accounting of every possibly-interested party, I believe this constitutes a representative sample from which I can draw a suitable conclusion.</p>
<p>“First, I would like to highlight the key groups in this sample.” He cleared his throat and flipped over a page of notes, giving Hermione a chance to let her eyes wander over the names in chalk. He’d avoided listing one in particular and he hoped to reach the appropriate point in his presentation before she confronted him about that omission. “The first, and most significant to my conclusions, are the reigning generation of primarily pureblood patriarchs. These men are people with whom I attended Hogwarts. They are each in charge of their family’s finances and main manor houses, hold seats in the Wizengamot or influential positions in the Ministry, and are essential figures in the Wizarding social scene. Many of them followed my influence years ago, which is a possible asset; as a downside, they also are the only group that remembers Tom Riddle and his origins.”</p>
<p>“You’re Tom Riddle, Tom,” she objected to his use of the third person. He ignored her.</p>
<p>“The second group consists of the next generation of this social class. Many of these names are not listed here because the individuals are currently underage, but they will come of age within the next decade. They are currently forging marriage alliances, but that’s their primary value within their families at this age.</p>
<p>“The third and final group are those who don’t come from families of influence, but who have a particular talent or position that may be useful. All of these individuals have been recommended by someone in one of the first two groups, though they are unknown and untrusted until I investigate each one individually.”</p>
<p>Voldemort summoned a glass from the kitchen and made a deliberate show of wandlessly filling it with water before taking a sip. He flicked his wand at a strip of bare slate behind him and the three categories flashed into existence in pristine white chalk. Hermione murmured suitably appreciative noises in reaction.</p>
<p>“Each of these groups has a role to play based on their motivations and assets. The third group would make up the primary mass of my organisation: well-placed but undistinguished individuals who could serve as initial points of contact or scouts for more of the same. Most of these people are interested in moving upwards on the social ladder, and the promise of power, money, or promotion would ensure their interest and, eventually, loyalty. Their political leanings are, mostly, unknown, though I assume most are self-serving enough to accept whatever the organisation needs.</p>
<p>“The second group would be important to capture young. In another decade or two, they will be the public representatives of their families, with access to the fortunes and political positions. They don’t know me, which poses some challenge, but my magical power and seniority provides an advantage for the hungry young heirs. I want them. If I capture their attention now, they’ll be more loyal to me than to their own families, and I would have the majority of social and political movers in my pocket.</p>
<p>“But the first group, my old Knights... they’re the at the crux of the whole plan. They know too much for me to ignore them. They’re too rich. They hold too much power. I cannot ignore them. They want for nothing. In the years since we were children, they’ve become fat and complacent in their own pathetic spheres of influence. Anyone could tell that they would be stronger as a group, but they’ve grown paranoid and feudal. </p>
<p>“Many of these men are no longer trustworthy. I can force submission to some extent, but the key to their long-term support is building on a common ideology. There’s... only one thing that fulfills the requirement.” Voldemort flicked his wand at a board again, and the final name appeared with a flourish: Abraxas Malfoy. He watched sadly as her eyes caught on the key part of the description—“blood purist.”</p>
<p>“But—how? Abraxas is friends with <i>me</i>,” his sweet Hermione lamented. He’d avoided putting up Malfoy’s name for weeks so that she wouldn’t have to face this fact in their home day after day, but it couldn’t be avoided forever.</p>
<p>“Abraxas earnestly likes you; I’ve seen it in his mind. But he’s made you into an exception. He won’t shift his worldview for one person. All of these men,” Voldemort gestured tightly at the list of pureblood names, “think of themselves as better, more worthy, by virtue of their entirely Wizarding heritage. It’s—it’s just an excuse to justify their family’s good fortune, or their grudges against political rivals, or any number of petty things, but it’s their unifying trait. Take Nott: that man is a sadist. No, don’t scoff—I am not a sadist, I am merely unaffected by violence. He revels in it. No family would marry their daughter to him for fear of what he would do to the woman. Do you understand how terrible he must be for families to resist tying themselves to the Nott fortune? A family man like Rosier would never work with Nott now that they’re not sharing a dorm. Unless... they’re coaxed under the banner of a common cause.</p>
<p>“It works like this: we build a political and social organisation with all of these people as members. The influential families all have some embarrassment or debt they would like to quietly handle, and the undistinguished infantry are sent in groups to... take care of the problem, we’ll call these ‘raids.’ We shake down some debtors, send a warning to a political rival, whatever is required. The raids would appeal to some of the less savoury individuals who need an outlet for their impulses and showcase our magical strength. In return, those with influence in the Ministry or industry prioritise the foot soldiers for promotion or important task forces. Some may even marry well or amass enough wealth to become another high-priority family. We placate the squeamish members by coordinating formal social events—make them feel valued, respected, et cetera.”</p>
<p>Voldemort waved vaguely at the skull and serpent drawing opposite his position, causing the illustrated snake to slither around the skull. “After a few years, I Mark my most important followers as a sign of their loyalty. I’ve derived the spellwork to create a permanent mark that allows for limited communication, directed apparition, and a few other benefits. But it’s a deceptively simple plan, overall: we counterbalance the strengths and weaknesses of these people within a new bloodline-based political faction that’s actually a cover for solidifying power throughout the British Isles under myself, indulging our members’ interests whenever possible.”</p>
<p>Hermione was quick to respond. “So that’s it, then? A Muggle-raised half-blood and a Muggleborn conspiring in a cheap flat to sell blood purity doctrine back to its originators.” She appeared... disappointed. It didn’t sit well.</p>
<p>“Yes.” It was the only answer he could give.</p>
<p>“You know I can’t support that, Tom.”</p>
<p>“You can always move to Canada,” Voldemort couldn’t keep the coldness out of his voice. He’d spent long hours compiling these hundred names, researching each person’s assets and pressure points, considering all of the angles available in the current political climate. “Blood purity wasn’t my first choice, despite my Slytherin ancestry. It’s risky for me—if Walburga Black gets too chatty at a party, she could undermine the Lord Voldemort presence before I have a chance to grow. Any number of people from my school days, especially my housemates, remember me as a child. I don’t like it. Nine years’ absence helps somewhat, as does my changed appearance, but I can’t have anyone mention my Muggle parentage if this is going to work. I would much rather do this through just magical power, but too many families are content to be mediocre wizards as long as they remain rich.” He was angry, now, at being forced to recall the ways in which he didn’t line up with the most important men he was trying to court. “I can excuse your heritage—these men will allow it, based on your gender, sorry, love. You married into pureblood society once already, which won’t hurt when we justify the divorce as a choice to join my movement.”</p>
<p>“Or we could move to Ecuador, live on a small farm. I’ll chop wood to keep you warm and you can study magic to your heart’s content.” He could tell her words were only partly in jest and shook his head decisively.  “It was worth a shot,” Hermione dejectedly mumbled.</p>
<p>“This path is my best bet for straightforward power,” he admitted. “It’s not flawless. If I cement the movement during the first few years, I have a strong chance of my supporters taking the Ministry by the mid-eighties. It will be important to keep the identities of my followers hidden and to disconnect the raids from the political maneuvering, or the DMLE will be forced to act. If I can keep the raids small and focused, instead of letting them become an excuse for Muggle-baiting, it’ll work. I will need trustworthy lieutenants who understand restraint.</p>
<p>“The downside of this plan is that if I do not maintain the balance between political and martial action, we could be in an all-out war against the Ministry and its supporters within the decade.” Voldemort had considered this risk and determined it to be unfortunately realistic. He knew that he could train an effective army, and he calculated that he was magically unmatched by anyone short of Albus Dumbledore, but open battles were still unappealing. “I don’t fancy myself as a visible presence in a violent political revolution so I would prefer to avoid this outcome, though I will prepare for it.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want a war, Tom. We grew up in a war. The Wizarding world is too small to recover quickly from mass conflict. It would... we would be crippled for at least a generation.” </p>
<p>Voldemort agreed with her fervently, but limited himself to a single nod of affirmation. He had been a teen in the heart of London during the air raids each summer and he keenly remembered the feeling. He was not afraid of pain. He was not afraid to defend himself. He was the tiniest bit afraid of accidentally killing the world that had come to be his home. Power through conquest wasn’t valuable to him if the conquered lands were left barren in his wake. It reminded him, uncomfortably, of his miserable uncle Morfin, half-deranged and having deserted human language, ranting about bloodlines while standing in a decrepit shack. No, he did not want that future for himself.</p>
<p>“You’re sure that there’s no way to do this on just the strength of your magical knowledge?”</p>
<p>“I need the pureblood patriarchs,” he confirmed. “I tried demonstrating how much I could teach them, but they rely on the strength of their ancestors. Some ancient relative’s collar or bracelet provides whatever magical effect they need. They never consider creating new artefacts for the bloodline. They barely maintain their blood wards. No, they’re governed by prejudice and envy.” And this was well-known to both, who had come of age surrounded by whispered comments of “stolen magic.”</p>
<p>Hermione still objected. “But if you choose this path, you’re limiting yourself to pureblood followers. We’re both proof of magical strength in mixed or Muggle heritage; you’d really lose those people?”</p>
<p>“I would accept anyone of merit who pledged their support.”</p>
<p>“They won’t get a chance to pledge their support, Tom.” He watched her mouth work to verbalise the words and he was again thankful that such a thoughtful, rational creature had fallen into his life. Hermione was so unlike the majority of his acquaintances—when she voiced a dissenting opinion, she did so without guile or motivation to make herself look superior in comparison. Rosier or Nott would occasionally put up a fight, and Lestrange and both Blacks would almost gleefully rebuke an idea, but always in order to suggest their own correctness. Voldemort appreciated how Hermione could engage him academically, not seeking to embarrass or shame him through disagreement, and sometimes improve his ideas with additional perspective. She wasn’t willing to go as far as he in pursuit of a goal, and that was a weakness, but he would always hear her out. </p>
<p>“If you use blood purity as your unifying platform, the Muggleborns and many half-bloods are necessarily in opposition to you. You might recruit some half-bloods, depending on their family and how they were raised, and perhaps even a handful of very confused or self-hating Muggleborns, but not many. I mean, can you imagine if Dumbledore comes down from his tower to lead a resistance movement? He’s got extremely narrow views on the use of magic but he would win the Muggleborn vote by default, giving his ideas so much more influence than either of us wants.”</p>
<p>“You’re right, but what would you have me do otherwise?”</p>
<p>It was a hard problem and Voldemort knew that she couldn’t give him an answer. Perhaps it was unfair to ask. He was curious to see if she would think of a solution.</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Hermione admitted after some time. “It is much easier to point out flaws than to create a novel solution. What if we negotiate a stay of execution? You had a month to think of this; I get another month to consider the same data and propose an alternative.”</p>
<p>“And if you cannot find an alternative?”</p>
<p>“Then I suppose I’m moving to Canada.”</p>
<p>“I really wish you wouldn’t.” It made his stomach flip uncomfortably to think about losing Hermione’s company again. When he had left to travel, he knew he would be coming back. True, Hermione had taken the unexpected step of involving herself with another person while he was away, but he would have found a way to fix that issue if she hadn’t resolved it herself. His departure always had an end in sight, and once he’d met Hermione, that end included her continued presence. If she was forced to leave because of her Vow, he would never see her again. That was an unpleasant future to confront; it was unpleasant enough to make Voldemort almost reconsider the Vow.</p>
<p>Hermione seemed to sense his distress, because she motioned for him to join her on the couch, where she settled him with his head in her lap. “I will need to continue to meet with some of these people in order to keep up appearances,” Voldemort continued after a pause, speaking so his lips brushed against her thigh. “And I propose that we attend a few society functions during the winter ball season. Together. I don’t want to have a high profile, but I want to register our presence and see if anyone new could prove to be a useful asset.”</p>
<p>He felt her hand gently pet his head, raking her fingers through his fringe to pull it back from his forehead. He let unexpected tension release from his shoulders, Hermione pulling the stress of the morning out of him through her devotion to his comfort. Voldemort suspected that if he had an unblemished soul and had been able to conjure a patronus, this would be his memory.</p>
<p>He let her coddle him at length, breathing the scent of her skin, feeling the warmth of her sweater behind his neck, and enjoying the type of closeness that he had denied himself for so many years. She eventually broke the silence.</p>
<p>“You know, I couldn’t believe it when you said you wanted to teach at Hogwarts. I couldn’t believe you already applied once. But, I have to admit: you would have been a great teacher.”</p>
<p>Voldemort smirked at the praise, though he doubted she could see the expression. Now this was truly a patronus-worthy memory—Hermione’s affection and an admission that he had been right in an argument? Perfect.</p>
<p>“Did you really want to teach? I mean, you would have succeeded in the role, but you actually wanted it?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” he rumbled through the confession, “it’s—I’ve always wanted it. I can’t think of anything more powerful than teaching.”</p>
<p>“Stop it, Tom, you’re going to sound like a sentimental fool if you go on like that!” Hermione laughed and let one of her hands dance along his chest. He growled in response.</p>
<p>“I don’t mean any of that tripe. But teaching—most people never look past the perspective of their instructors. In our world, that puts influence over every witch and wizard in the hands of, what, a dozen teachers? I can’t help but imagine what I would do with that. I never cared for the idea of being a head of house or advising children through mundane life experiences—I had enough of that in one year as Head Boy—but setting a curriculum? Preparing lectures? Selecting texts? Those are power, Hermione.”</p>
<p>He felt her hum of agreement vibrate through the sensitive skin of his neck, filling his head. “It <i>was</i> powerful, Tom. I... I hated the children, though.”</p>
<p>Voldemort laughed deeply, jostling her hip as he shook in place with the unexpected strength of his movements. “My Hermione, cruel and callous toward children! And yet you think me a villain.” He turned to face up, staring into her indignant brown eyes. “I will have you know that I was considered a warm and welcoming Head Boy during my tenure. I hugged the homesick firsties. How many firsties did you hug, Hermione?” he taunted her as she turned a dull red and shoved at his shoulders ineffectually.</p>
<p>“Now, love,” Voldemort reached a hand up to hold her curls and halt her motion. “Should I dock points for roughhousing in the hallway?”</p>
<p>“Git! Expectations of young female instructors are such that hugging and other types of physical affection would have undermined my authority in the eyes of students.”</p>
<p>“Oh, you sound quite official, dear. I’m sure Tabitha will understand from that why you’re not comforting her when her mum owled that the family cat died. Do you hand her the essay you marked ‘poor’ in the same conversation? I hear efficiency and prompt feedback are also good ways to establish authority in the classroom, you know.”</p>
<p>He watched as she screeched her rage into the room, allowing the impotent display with a smile on his face, before placing a finger between her lips to tease her. She was endless fun to rile like this, and she liked playing along, sucking his finger into her mouth briefly before releasing him with a soft pop.</p>
<p>“Is that what you needed as a student, Tom? A professor to kiss your scraped knee and hug you when the other boys were too mean? Someone to smooth your hair when you were just <i>such a helpful boy</i>, perfect little Tom?” He watched with widened eyes as her voice dropped and she ran a hand down her neck. “Would you want to earn your Outstanding by charming the nasty Charms professor, my sweet?”</p>
<p>Oh, <i>yes</i>. Yes he would.</p>
<p>“If the professor were... obliging, I’ve been practicing some extracurricular wand work.” Voldemort reached a hand down to grab his rising erection through his trousers, pulling his length furtively. He watched her eyes flick down and then back with growing excitement mirroring his own. “I would appreciate a chance to demonstrate for your approval.”</p>
<p>“We’ll see about approval, Mr. Riddle. I’ve been known to prefer personally demonstrating correct technique.” He let her unbutton him and shove down his trousers and pants but he gently redirected her hands to his stomach and chest once his cock was freed.</p>
<p>“A student should have a chance to prove their knowledge, professor, don’t you think?” He grasped his shaft with his left hand, squeezing firmly and stroking in slow motions along his length as he used his right to reach down further, softly tugging and rolling his balls. Voldemort was not a person to frequently take his own pleasure, but doing so for Hermione was exciting. He watched her pupils dilate and her breathing grow shallow, felt her tweak his nipples through his shirt, and sped up his own movements to match. He felt the tension grow in the base of his spine, coiling and hot and urgent, and turned his face to breathe in the mingled scent of his sweater and her skin as he let his palm crest over the head of his red and weeping cock. So close... but Hermione had other plans, sharply halting his stroke as she grabbed his wrist.</p>
<p>“Not—not bad,” she said brokenly, “but as a good professor, I shouldn’t let you end without showing you another technique.” He whimpered—Lord Voldemort let a pathetic, high-pitched noise fall from his lips—but curled his nails into his palm and allowed her to redirect his attention.</p>
<p>Hermione extracted herself from underneath him, peeling off her trousers and knickers quickly. She grabbed for the hem of the sweater to pull it off as well and Voldemort nearly leapt up to prevent the effort. “Keep—keep it on,” he begged her raggedly. “I want to see you in it. I want you to come while wearing it.”</p>
<p>He saw her break character for just a second, let loose just a brief soft smile, before she straddled his hips.</p>
<p>“Now, Mr. Riddle, let’s practice casting in conjunction with another person.” She circled his cock with her soft little hand, lining herself up with his head. “Note how these two components,” she let him breach her entrance, “work well together—oh!” He had grabbed her hips impatiently, pulling her fully down onto his length.</p>
<p>“You’ll find I am eager to learn, Professor Granger. Kindly demonstrate.” Voldemort growled into a thrust, suggesting to Hermione that he would make this end soon if she wanted to tease. She took the hint and began grinding against him, using his length to pleasure herself in tandem with her delicate fingers flying over her clit. He couldn’t see much of her, just her pale and narrow thighs peeking from below his sweater, but she was a vision of perfection, all sweaty curls and heaving breaths and hard nipples suggestively outlined through the thick wool. He didn’t know what to do with his hands—he wanted to touch her everywhere, roaming over her arse and thighs, then up to her back and neck, then back down her front to cup her breasts through fabric. She was moaning breathily, speeding her pace, and torturing him with each insufficient thrust of her hips. </p>
<p>“Tom!” She cried, clearly close to her release. He moistened a finger in his mouth and, as he felt her start to draw inward, thrust it into her arse. She groaned and thrust back onto him, fucking his finger and his cock with each frantic motion of her hips. He couldn’t wait to feel her hot cunt clench around him, to feel her arsehole try and draw him further in, he wanted—he wanted—</p>
<p>Hermione screamed his name and yanked on his hair, her body clenching and flexing around him to draw out his own finish. He panted and moaned, louder than he’d come in years, throwing his shoulders back and bouncing her on his cock twice as he pumped her full of his release.</p>
<p>“That,” Voldemort gasped, “deserves an ‘Outstanding,’ Professor.”</p>
<p>Hermione chuckled and collapsed forward onto his chest, his cock still embedded within her. He knew he wouldn’t allow her to go until their combined release had thoroughly soaked and dirtied the couch beneath them. Hermione, he could admit, had made him an expectant cuddler. </p>
<p>“You would be a good teacher, Tom,” she mumbled into his neck.</p>
<p>“Not without you, my dear. I would need a stern colleague to balance my sentimentality, after all.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tom and Hermione should get to have more playful sex. They’re so cute together.</p>
<p>Also, though Tom hugged the firsties (he is not lying), they were awful hugs. Always either too long or too short, and definitely stiff, but a crying firstie can’t always tell the difference and it’s the thought that counts (for perfecting your image as Head Boy). Tom also definitely sent a threatening letter to Tabitha’s mum for upsetting her daughter like that.</p>
<p>Thank you for continuing to read and comment!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. December 1970</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>No time for notes today, but I wanted to get this out before class started. Y’all, remote teaching is awful.</p><p>Thanks for reading!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Early December approached steadily, and with it, the need to attend society events. Hermione and Tom had agreed to go to two parties: a winter ball hosted by Hester Diggory, her old school friend, and a New Year’s Eve dinner hosted by Abraxas Malfoy. Hester’s party would have a larger guest list, but despite that, it was the less significant event. Hermione didn’t bother to purchase new robes.</p><p>Hester’s party would mark the first time Hermione was attending a social event as Tom’s partner. Years with George had taught her the importance of making appearances and playing nice to pay dues to her social set, but she found herself wondering what would be different without her ex-husband. She and George had always gossiped and laughed after the parties were over, impersonating the most ludicrous characters of the night for comic effect, and Hermione found herself slightly sad that this would be her first party since the divorce, her first night without George’s charades. </p><p>She wondered if Myrna Marchbanks, the new woman, liked to laugh at society matrons too. Myrna, who was at least an additional five years younger than Hermione, was rumored to be wearing the same Fawcett family pendant that had been Hermione’s engagement gift. Hermione wasn’t jealous, not really, not beyond the routine insecurity of seeing an old flame with a new partner. She’d just been so busy with Tom since he walked back into her life that she hadn’t taken the time to process that George had also moved on. </p><p>Hermione also wasn’t eager to meet the various Slytherin purebloods she knew would be in attendance at this party, not after watching Tom catalogue their worst traits for weeks, not knowing that he still planned to unite them under the banner of blood purity.</p><p>So, in somewhat low spirits and unenthusiastic about the company, Hermione was surprised to find that it was Tom, not her, becoming visibly distressed in a conversation with Lestrange, Nott, and a few of the Blacks. There had only been one other woman present in the group, and the men seemed mostly content to consider Hermione’s rare, disinterested comments as sufficient contribution to the conversation, which mostly covered Ministry personnel gossip and thoughts on the younger generation’s marriage alliances. </p><p>Despite that banality, Tom grew visibly agitated. First, she noticed his eyes darting around the circle of people rapidly, as though he’d become wary of the company. Next, he gripped his glass too tightly, and she hastened to take it from him before it burst under the guise of wanting to try his drink. Once that avenue for explosion had been removed, Tom redirected his mounting emotion to his jaw, which he clenched so tightly that Hermione, ever the dentist’s daughter, was concerned he might crack a tooth. </p><p>His teeth were much too perfect to allow such damage. </p><p>Thinking fast, she hurried them away with a truly lame excuse—something about needing a drink refill and oh, was that Hester over there, when Hester was conspicuously not over there—trusting that no one in the group cared enough to call the Gryffindor Muggleborn on her inept behavior.</p><p>She had meant to redirect them to a dance or some other conversation, but once she’d pulled Tom out of the group, he quickly took off, walking away from her and out of the main ballroom. She pursued him down a side hallway, almost running to keep up with his determined stride, and followed Tom into what was clearly a private parlor.</p><p>“Tom? What’s happened?”</p><p>His voice came out so chillingly cold that she physically drew back when she heard it. “Their minds.” He started slowly, enunciating both words with unnerving precision. “They were thinking about you. About your presence with me.”</p><p>He took a shaky breath, clearly attempting control, but Hermione could tell that his underdeveloped ability to self-soothe would not work in this situation. His simmering rage was unprecedented in their relationship and she was powerless to act, standing, eyes wide, at some distance from him in the secluded room.</p><p>“<i>Mudblood bitch,</i>” Tom spat the slur. “<i>His muddy father must be bleeding through.</i>” Oh—oh no. If those men had implied a connection between the presence of Hermione and Tom’s father... there was no one that Tom despised more fully than his father.</p><p>Tom’s eyes flashed red before she could complete the thought. His beautiful, midnight eyes turned bright crimson and Hermione was looking at a demon standing in the place of her lover. She panicked. She shrieked, throwing herself backwards across the room, as far away from this vision of hell as she could get. Her wand was under her skirt, lord, <i>why wasn’t it on her arm?</i> She needed to be out of here, she needed to leave, she needed to get help, this wasn’t Tom—</p><p>This was <i>Voldemort</i>—</p><p>And Voldemort moved with an unparalleled swiftness, though he held no wand, seizing Hermione by her arms in an unbreakable hold as a ripple of his magic cascaded over her body and she opened her mouth to scream again—</p><p>And the room fucking exploded.</p><p>Furniture, art, fixtures, even the plaster of the walls turned to fine dust in an instant. Hermione had seen the reductor curse used to decimate single objects before, but this eruption of magic had acted like a thousand simultaneous reductor curses, annihilating the room down to the lath. </p><p>Except that she was untouched.</p><p>She was untouched, because Tom had managed to protect them both at the same time that his rage so thoroughly devastated a space that the only remainders were piles of dust.</p><p>“Oh fuck. Oh bloody fucking fuck.” Hermione remembered with a start that they were guests in her friend’s home during a huge society party and there would be people here demanding an explanation for the <i>giant explosion</i> within minutes. “Fuck fuck fuck. Hester—Hester and I are friends, we can... I’ll work something out. To pay her back for the damage. I—I can work it off, resume my contracts, we’ll—we will sort this. Tom. We will sort this. We just need to... prevent anyone other than Hester from seeing this. That could work. Tom. That could work. Tom?”</p><p>Tom had crumpled to the floor, his long arms still reaching up to grasp her in what she now realised was a much lighter hold than her first panicked assumption had led her to believe. He looked almost like a supplicant, head bowed low before her, back curved in a humble stance. He was vibrating with tension, and she wasn’t sure if it was from remaining rage, the giant expression of magical energy, fear, or something else. </p><p>She was barely holding herself together, but she couldn’t deny Tom his lifeline. Seeing him so utterly destroyed, seeing just how poorly he managed his rage, and knowing that even in that moment of weakness he had protected her... Hermione would get them both through this. So she sank into the pile of ash that constituted a floor, pulled him down into her lap, and cradled Tom until his tremors stopped.</p><p>As they sat together, Hermione catalogued the facts of their situation. </p><p>Tom had anger issues far past what she had previously witnessed. Clearly, he had hid these outbursts from her. They must be horcrux-related, as he had already admitted to emotional instability related to their creation. </p><p>Tom had the presence of mind to protect both of them from his release of magic. So although his ability to regulate his own emotions was faulty, he was not a mindless beast. She wasn’t sure whether his choice to protect her would have extended to anyone in the room with him at the time, and decided to leave that as a topic for future consideration.</p><p>Tom must have also managed to silence the room, as it had now been some minutes since his outburst and yet they had not been found and confronted. That also suggested an amazing presence of mind in his moment of fury.</p><p>Finally, Tom had more raw magical power than Hermione could have ever imagined. Ever. She’d known he was smart and capable, but this level of output would rival Wizarding feats of actual legend, if only it had been channeled into something worth noting.</p><p>So it was inevitable that Tom would choose that moment of understanding to pull himself up and, in a show of silent concentration, use his wand to direct the ash and dust back into their original forms. The entire room rebuilt itself before her unbelieving eyes as if it had never entertained a disturbance this evening. After everything that had already happened, Hermione was unable to register her own amazement.</p><p> </p><p>Voldemort gently helped Hermione to stand after he had righted the damage. He’d had substantial practice with magical destruction and creation. Destruction came more naturally, of course, as anyone who had ever thrown something in a rage could attest. But it was the creation that always calmed him: he needed to draw on every part of his magical training to reconstitute complex objects from dust, and the mental effort was so difficult that it forced his mind to let go of any other focus. The destruction exhausted him physically, and the creation did so mentally, to restore him to a state of control. </p><p>Tonight was not good for him. He could admit that he should not have been driven to such an extreme by a show of resistance from his prospective followers, who had been not-so-secretly thinking similarly insulting things during the entire period of their acquaintance. Their feelings had been amplified by the presence of the whole group, of course, but Tom had not accounted for the men responding so negatively to Hermione. She had married one of their contemporaries, after all. These men wouldn’t respect her for her intellectual achievements or her successful business, but he thought they should have deferred to his judgment. </p><p>No, if the old Knights thought Hermione had made him soft and untrustworthy, then his plan was wrong. It had miscalculated somewhere. He would have to change it. Rosier and Malfoy—those men accepted Hermione. He would learn what made her an exception to them, and he would replicate it with every other follower. </p><p>With the finality of that decision, Voldemort turned his attention back to Hermione, who appeared to be in a state of mild shock. Her pulse was fine, and she bore no physical injuries, so he thought it best to let her readjust to her surroundings before confirming their next steps. He wrapped her in his arms, patting the back of her head lightly so as not to disturb her hair, and hummed into her neck in order to soothe her. Gradually, she returned.</p><p>“Tom?” Voldemort slid his hands down her stiff arms to take her hands in his own, a familiar gesture for their confrontations.</p><p>“I apologise. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he confessed easily. “I didn’t intend for you to follow me while I dealt with my temper.”</p><p>“That... was intentional?” Hermione gasped in incredulous laughter, a near-manic spark flashing across her eyes briefly. He grasped her hands more firmly in response, willing her to stay with him. “Lord, Tom, did you think to try breathing exercises first? Counting backwards in your head?”</p><p>He hadn’t, actually. It seemed rather Muggle.</p><p>“Okay. Okay.” Hermione was still processing. “Well, it’s—we’re fine with the hosts, I suppose. I think I want to go home and sleep now. This... this was fucked up, Tom, and we need to research the horcrux solution because I have no intention of ever experiencing that without warning again, but we can talk about it <i>some other time</i>. You are going to walk me out of here, say our goodbyes to the hosts, and apparate me straight into our bedroom within the next five minutes, or I am going to pass out and you will have to do all of that while dragging my limp body. Good?” He nodded in mute agreement. “Good.” And so he did.</p>
<hr/><p>Following their disastrous night at Hester Diggory’s party, Hermione couldn’t tell if time was moving too fast or too slow. She felt compelled to propose an alternative to Tom’s blood purity doctrine quickly, but she also wanted to slow down and plan every detail to make her proposal perfect. These incongruous goals warred in her mind and she found herself, most days, staring blankly at her living room walls. </p><p>It wasn’t the case that Tom’s outburst had made her fear him. She’d expected that, initially, but her mind always drifted back to the essential truth that he had protected her. Perhaps, even more accurately, he had allowed her to witness him in a moment of weakness. She didn’t kid herself: he had been forced into it by the circumstances, but Hermione thought that it was still an unprecedented act of trust and so she couldn’t sustain particular ill-will toward Tom.</p><p>No, she was worried about him. Hermione determined that the crowd Tom was courting wouldn’t swallow blood purity from a half-blood who was seeing a Muggleborn, and so his choices would be to torture them into submission or get rid of her presence in his life. She wasn’t keen on either. Further, she knew that Tom was still corresponding regularly with these men, as she’d noticed him send owls out to Rosier and Malfoy within days of the party, and she was concerned about his persistence triggering another episode of dangerous magic use for the purpose of emotional control. </p><p>She wanted to get this politicking over with, to set him up with reasonably safe goals, so that she could take a step back from closely supervising him and dedicate her full attention to how she would reconnect his soul. Lord, did Tom need a healed soul.</p><p>So each day, she would sit and stare and will her useless, know-it-all brain to think creatively for once, and Tom would hover in the door from the kitchen like a skittish colt, herding her through the motions of being a functional adult until it was time to sleep and they could just hold each other in the dark. Hermione knew that she did not have to be responsible for him, but the thought of asking for that portkey to America and ripping him out of her life made her heart ache. She would see this thing with Tom through. </p><p>Hermione’s moment of acceptance arrived on the 24th of December. When she woke up that morning, instead of taking her tea to the sofa for another day of brooding, she started pulling ingredients out of the pantry for Tom’s favorite biscuits. She creamed sugar into butter, sifted cocoa powder and flour, managed not to get any eggshell into the bowl, and thanked the heavens above that the mint extract wasn’t empty. The mint chocolate shortbread recipe always yielded an enormous batch, and though she usually bemoaned the slow process of baking six dozen biscuits while owning only one sheet pan, today, she let the meditative process of pulling the finished biscuits off the pan, charming the pan cool again, and loading it up with the next round of dough, calm her in preparation for the afternoon. She didn’t even notice Tom, who had been watching since he first smelled the mint, until he coordinated a fresh pot of tea with the completion of the final pan of biscuits.</p><p>Steeling herself, Hermione pronounced, “I’m ready to pitch an alternative to blood purity.”</p><p>Tom merely cocked an eyebrow in response, busy as he was with fixing their cups and loading a plate with cooled biscuits.</p><p>By mutual unstated agreement, they settled into a shared cocoon of blankets on the living room sofa. Hermione had a flash of a future filled with holidays like this, quietly enjoying Tom’s company, not a relative or well-meaning friend around to question their lack of decorations or presents or to impose any expectations of what a celebration should be, and the thought comforted her. She pressed lightly into his side until she felt him return the gesture.</p><p>“I’ll be upfront with you, Tom—I’m not as prepared as you were. But... I don’t want to go the Malfoys on your birthday and be forced to sit through dinner with all of those same people without some hope of an alternative. I cannot promote blood purity. I told you that from the start, and after the Diggorys, I don’t think you can, either, if you plan to stay sane. You won’t be able to keep up with your anger.”</p><p>She paused for Tom’s benefit. He was placidly eating biscuits beside her, which she took as a positive sign to continue talking.</p><p>“I think you should reconsider building your presence on sheer magical knowledge and power.” She’d thought about this between bouts of staring at walls, and Hermione realised that if anything good had come of that doomed night at the party, it was her witnessing his magical capacity. Before that, she had taken him at his word that the purebloods would never be moved to support him based on magic alone. Now, she had faith in Tom to overcome that reticence. “Just—just don’t laugh, promise me?” </p><p>Tom turned wide, earnest eyes to her. He even placed his half-finished biscuit down so that he could take her shoulders in his hands, a gesture she found endearing for its resemblance to something a children’s quidditch coach might do during a pep talk. “I will not,” he swore.</p><p>“Start a school for advanced magical education. A university, or if that’s too formal, come up with a different name. When is the last time someone started a proper Wizarding school? There are so few in the world, even fewer that offer education for students past their primary years, and every school mythologises its founders. You thought that teaching at Hogwarts would grant you power, but you would at best become a headmaster. Don’t settle for headmaster; become Salazar Slytherin.”</p><p>“Salazar Slytherin,” Tom deadpanned beside her. He swirled the last bit of tea in his cup deliberately and she felt the sting of embarrassment that always threatened to emerge when she made herself vulnerable to intellectual critique. “I’m as good as. Sole remaining heir, remember?”</p><p>“Heir isn’t the same as original founder, and you know it,” she jabbed back. “Think about it: after Hogwarts, the only options for continuing education are masteries or specific job training programs. Both forms of apprenticeship lock students in to one field of study; there’s little exchange of ideas across disciplines. However, an institute that focused on interdisciplinary research and did not tie itself to the strict boundaries between fields established at Hogwarts would be a worthwhile addition to our world.</p><p>“You already know that I think you would be a compelling instructor for advanced magical practice. Perhaps you could have tolerated lower-level instruction at Hogwarts, but why bother if you don’t have to do so? Forget teaching children, teach the adults. Wizards and witches who want education after their NEWTs will represent the most intelligent and capable in our society, exactly the audience who would appreciate you. The institute could even offer accelerated one-year NEWT courses for students who want to pick up additional qualifications later in life.”</p><p>“Or,” Tom suggested, playing along with her idea now, “for students who wish to skip the final two years at Hogwarts. There might be an audience among some pureblood families for removing their children from the purview of Dumbledore if education could be continued uninterrupted.”</p><p>“Sure! Maybe you set up some incentive to lure away Hogwarts students after five years. A scholarship program for students, perhaps, so you’re not limited to pureblood families who can pay for private schooling. Name the funding in honor of whichever patron of yours will front the money. I’m sure Abraxas would be thrilled to have Malfoy Scholars snapping up Ministry positions.”</p><p>“Scholarships for students. Hermione, you understand that this all sounds completely absurd.”</p><p>“Yes,” she agreed easily. It was, after all, an unfinished wisp of a thought she had clung to in a desperate bid to save Tom from the lunacy of starting a war over blood purity. “But you’ve always wanted to teach, and I was dismissive of that ambition at first, and that was wrong of me. I just couldn’t understand it, when it was abundantly clear to me that you would never have a chance at Hogwarts while Dumbledore was there.</p><p>“However, I was trapped in rote thinking. Do you remember what you said to me in your last letter?” </p><p>His eyes caught hers, and the intensity of his gaze startled her as he spoke. “Of course. I told you to stop trying to reason within the system that Dumbledore has built. I called it a prison.”</p><p>She nodded affirmatively and placed her empty teacup delicately on the table beside them. Tom was her full focus now. “Do not be an animal in their zoo, Tom. Why try to fit your vision to conform to extant institutions? If you go to Hogwarts, you’re stuck as a pawn in Dumbledore’s hierarchy, and even if you became headmaster, you’re beholden to a millennium of traditions and a Board of Governors. If you go to the Ministry, you mire yourself in bureaucracy and centuries of factionalism. You could try a violent coup, which might earn you power, but at the cost of many magical lives and you will always carry the risk of resistance building to an insurgency. Given that you plan to live forever, that means you will doom yourself to suppressing rebellions for eternity. That sounds miserable.</p><p>“Create your own institution. Set your own rules, build your own power structure, and make yourself a key figure in the way that Hogwarts or the Wizengamot are key figures. Neither could do away with the other; they are forced to coexist, no matter whether they are at odds. Become essential, rule from your castle, accept that you may not be the sole power but you can be a necessary pillar of our world.”</p><p>Tom’s eyes sparkled with glee and he grabbed her arms in excitement. “A castle!”</p><p>“That was really more a figure of speech—“</p><p>“No, you’ve committed to it, I’m going to have a castle.” He was earnestly smiling now, like he was a child receiving a train set for the holiday rather than a grown man envisioning major societal change. “That would be incredible. You felt it, Hermione, when you first went to Hogwarts. The unbelievability of people creating something as grand as Hogwarts Castle with just their will and their imagination. Oh, I want to make a magical castle. To mark our world so concretely, with the type of building that inspires amazement in anyone... I would want everyone to be able to see it.” His eyes snapped between unfocused and focused in rapid succession, his mind clearly racing through possibilities. “Public lectures. Forums. Hogwarts is practically closed, locked off, to magical people after their graduation. All of that knowledge and power is forbidden to you once you graduate. The Ministry, too, keeps its resources for its own use. No, I would want to open our doors to the public regularly. There should be widespread access to magical knowledge.”</p><p>“I looked into the legality of practicing the Dark Arts,” Hermione admitted quickly. “After—after you helped me with the client from the Black family. I couldn’t have provided him with the final charm if it were illegal to do so. It’s not illegal. Most of it, actually. You can’t kill people, or cause permanent harm, but the laws are written based on damage done, not type of magic used. It’s just that all of the knowledge of the Dark Arts is locked up in private libraries. You could teach it. We could show how things like my modified deception charm have mundane uses. There must be so many useful ways to combine Dark magic with other disciplines for good ends.”</p><p>Tom gave her an appraising look, but she did not shrink back from her word choice. “You understand that there are political factions that already want to ban the Dark Arts, and openly teaching them would push them to action.”</p><p>“That may be,” she conceded. “But using the Dark Arts to shake down wizards over gambling debts would also push them to take action, and the threat model would be much more realistic, in that case. If you present your knowledge as an academic curiosity with an eye toward positive applications, I imagine many in the ruling class would be unmoved by calls to enact legal bans.”</p><p>Tom released her suddenly, his effusive joy disappearing in an instant as his calm mask returned. She mourned its loss but did not move to touch him, allowing Tom time to process whatever thought had struck him.</p><p>He finally spoke, his voice measured and hesitant. “I accept this proposition as an interesting option.” That was good, she thought, though she twisted her fingers with her other hand in anticipation of whatever would come next. “However, if I investigate this possibility and find it untenable, I want to have the ability to return to my original plan. I will not do anything that could endanger that, and I will make no public renouncements of anything my followers value.”</p><p>Ah, he wasn’t ready to give up on the purebloods. Hermione hadn’t really expected that, not after one conversation about her absurd notion of building his own institution, but she couldn’t help hoping. She could manage this concession, however. “I understand. I don’t think anything about this would invalidate the creation of a political faction, and if it was successful, in the future, you might want followers to be active in the Ministry in order to protect your interests. I guess I’d hope that if you’re willing to investigate this, you at least do nothing to explicitly center blood purity doctrines or otherwise put off potential students with Muggle heritage. The student pool would need to include more than just Blacks, you know.”</p><p>“Yes, sure,” he dismissed her concerns readily. His eyes were glazed with something that looked almost like nostalgia. “My own castle.” His voice was reverent, and Hermione realised that he must be revisiting memories of his first true home. Or—perhaps his only home, she thought sadly. He could never return to Hogwarts, but maybe they could create something close to it, something that was Tom’s own.</p>
<hr/><p>Voldemort had insisted that Hermione purchase a new set of dress robes for Abraxas’ party. She resisted, something about refusing to spend money on gowns that she could only wear once, but he suggested she just get something plain and black and be done with it and Hermione finally relented. He would find her pretty in anything, really, he just wanted her to have something from the right sort of tailor for a Malfoy party. </p><p>He, of course, had a new set of robes made bespoke, months in advance. Old shoes—<br/>
Voldemort had a pair of black calf oxfords he’d bought in his thirties that had been resoled twice and that he maintained religiously. Conditioning and waxing them the Muggle way gave better results than any spell, and it was a habit he’d established as a boy that had carried him through his entire life. He remembered Hermione’s surprise when she first caught him with shoe wax and a cotton sham, but she’d quickly begged for his help with her own footwear and so he’d taken over shoe maintenance responsibilities for the whole household. He had a much easier time convincing her to purchase a welted pair of calf-high boots for their social events after that.</p><p>Hermione firmly refused jewelry. Nothing he said could convince her to adopt a necklace or earrings, and to his horror, he discovered that her ears were no longer pierced. Some Muggle social movement in the last decade had apparently had a strong impact on her philosophy of gender and though Voldemort didn’t quite understand the context enough to grasp the details, the takeaway was that Hermione no longer groomed or dressed herself based on others’ expectations, and he could respect that impulse, quite honestly, as long as Abraxas didn’t throw them out of the manor. He would offer her no traditional jewelry and no hair pins. He thought he might convince her to take his favorite cloak pin, the snake curled around a sword, on the night of the event. It would mark her firmly as his own.</p><p>So on his birthday, when they arrived at the fête, they were an impressive pair of black-clad figures: him, fashionable in current and severely-cut robes, and her, formidably timeless and wearing the personal emblem of the most powerful wizard in the room. Let these families try and insult her blood; they would not escape him.</p><p>Voldemort had tasked Hermione with wooing the pureblood families by talking to their children, current and recent Hogwarts students, about their educational experiences. She was much too blunt to be left unsupervised around the parents, and he wasn’t ready to announce any plans officially. Teenage Slytherins could be crafty, of course, but were no match for a Gryffindor in her prime. He mostly left Hermione to her own devices during the cocktail hour, but decided to rejoin her when he noticed she was in conversation with Lucius Malfoy.</p><p>“Tom!” She greeted him warmly and he let her take his arm. He affectionately pulled her delicate hand close to his body. “Young Lucius here was just telling me that he dropped Defense Against the Dark Arts at the NEWT level.”</p><p>“Dropped Defense?” Tom followed her lead. “Why ever would you do that? It is one of the most important subjects at Hogwarts.”</p><p>Young little Lucius had a Malfoy’s composure, but as he was only 16 years old, Voldemort could see through his mask as if it weren’t present at all. The boy was awed by him. Ah, Abraxas must have shared Voldemort’s reputation with his son as the boy grew. </p><p>Lucius flipped his platinum hair over his shoulder nervously, sparing a winsome smile for Hermione as he answered. “Our instructor is no good, sir. Father approved because he wants me to work in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, which requires five NEWTs, but not Defense. He suggested that I could learn Defense through private tutoring and complete my training for the NEWT exam that way.”</p><p>He felt Hermione nudge his side and took the hint. “Indeed? Perhaps I should talk to your father. I have some thoughts on the Defense curriculum that could benefit your education.”</p><p>The blonde Malfoy heir didn’t actually beam in response, but it was a near thing. Voldemort was struck by just how freely the Slytherin boy expressed emotions—had he ever been that open in his youth? He couldn’t recall. His contemplation was broken as a couple of young witches approached their small group, and Lucius introduced the blonde girl, the younger of the two, as his betrothed, Narcissa Black, and the older as—</p><p>“Bellatrix Black Lestrange, my Lord.”</p><p>Oh, he knew that already. Madame Lestrange was somewhere around twenty, newly married into the Lestrange family, and, apparently, desperate to ingratiate herself with Lord Voldemort. She simpered at him excessively, causing Lucius and Narcissa to look embarrassed and Hermione to look amused. It was Hermione who responded first.</p><p>“So nice to make your acquaintance, Bellatrix!” She used the woman’s first name to emphasise their difference in age, and Voldemort could feel the tendrils of vindictive joy coming from Hermione’s mind as she toyed with the pureblood witch. She fiddled conspicuously with his snake clasp as she spoke. “Congratulations on your recent marriage. We’re sorry to have not been able to attend. Tom and I wouldn’t have missed the wedding of his good friends’ daughter and son if only he had been in town at the time. It’s such a precious experience, getting to watch you all grow up. Lucius, Narcissa, we very much look forward to your own union when the time comes.”</p><p>Narcissa took the conversational lead easily, gladly discussing her hopes for her wedding in a few years. Voldemort knew both he and Hermione found the idea of betrothal and teen weddings more than a little off-putting, especially when faced with just how terribly young these children looked, but it was certainly a safe topic for the purebloods. Bellatrix Lestrange tried to catch his eye a few times, and he wondered just what the woman had heard about him to ignite her interest. She was a coltish young woman, still all skinny limbs and knobby joints and flushed with youth, and she smelled like a bad decision. Her thoughts leapt out at him in a jumble and he occluded just to save himself the headache of observing her obsessive fascination—it seemed that Lestrange Senior had been quite open with his sons about Voldemort, and that knowledge transferred to the newest member of the family. He internally lamented that he would need to have a talk with the father, but even that thought couldn’t kill the buzz from what seemed like it would become a fruitful evening.</p><p>They were soon settled for dinner, Voldemort seated to the right of Abraxas as an honored guest, and Hermione next to him. He was shocked by the sheer number of children—no, young adults—seated amongst his followers’ families. A decade ago, these individuals had been so young as to be inconsequential, and he hadn’t realised how much the intervening decade would change the attendance at these gatherings. Nearly a third of the guests were new to him, and he knew that many more children under the age of fifteen were not here tonight, but would begin their entrance to society within the next few years. </p><p>Though children and young adults were complications for a violent political coup, they were an ideal audience for educational reform. And their parents were apparently more than happy to lament the state of Hogwarts under Dumbledore. He noticed Hermione hold back a grimace if anyone strayed too close to discussing Minerva, so he dutifully redirected the conversation from her friend whenever necessary. </p><p>Perhaps unsurprisingly, most complaints centered on the lack of networking opportunities for students. During Dumbledore’s tenure as Headmaster, student-run clubs had decreased threefold. Lestrange, who had a cousin who had taught for a few years in the early ‘60s, thought that either Dumbledore or the Ministry might have removed bonus pay for faculty sponsoring student clubs. One of the Blacks suggested that larger class sizes were to blame. A few wondered why Hogwarts didn’t hire more instructors for core subjects, but other guests were members of or related to people on the Board of Governors and so discussion of hiring and finances was dropped quickly. What was clear, however, was that the intimate social environments that allowed for students from different houses and years to mix had all but disappeared. A number of upper-level electives had been dropped, student clubs were dwindling, class sizes were increasing so students were more often working with members of their own house, and even old Slughorn had stepped back his guest invitations and parties from their halcyon days.</p><p>Voldemort didn’t intend to build a finishing school for the upper-class; he would sooner lose his own horcrux. However, the guests at this party would never have been the main market for continuing education. No, these families were too wealthy, and too well-established, to need it. His students and faculty would be strivers, but research needs money, and clearly, the people with money thought academia was useful for making connections. It was a shallow and self-interested way to engage with education, but in pursuit of the necessary galleons to fund his plans, Voldemort would exploit it happily.</p><p>Hermione seemed to agree that they had found a successful strategy, as she pulled Voldemort away from the crowded ballroom for a passionate kiss as guests dispersed at the conclusion of dinner. She was flushed with excitement and arousal after their productive conversations, sentiments he shared, but her request took him by surprise.</p><p>“Do me in the arse.”</p><p>Voldemort froze. “Here? In public?”</p><p>“You’re willing to fuck me in public, but anal is a step too far?” The damnable arch of her eyebrow made him feel powerless in his need for her.</p><p>“Quite the opposite, love,” he admitted. “I suppose I’m only questioning my luck. Now turn your pretty self and get your hands on the wall, or do I need to hold you?”</p><p>Hermione’s pupils dilated and he watched her tongue dart out to wet her lips. Precious. “Mmm, I can be good for you, Tom. It’s your birthday, after all.”</p><p>She braced herself against the wall, leaning forward so her forearms supported her and the full length of her back and legs were exposed to him. Voldemort spared no time in pulling her robes up and over her hips, revealing the pale flesh of her thighs. He yanked her knickers down quickly and heard her hiss as she was exposed to the air. </p><p>He hardened at the sight of her, bent and open in front of him, and fell to his knees. Using his hands to direct her hips, he angled her so that he could bury his nose in her cunt and tease her clit with his tongue, swirling and probing as she gasped and sighed. Her effort to stay quiet and not attract attention to their secluded hallway was driving him mad. He wanted to fill her and fuck her in time with those sighs, and his erection pulsed at the thought. </p><p>Slipping his left hand down to undo his trouser placket, he cupped his balls and palmed his cock lightly. Hermione had snuck one hand back to play with his hair, pushing his face further into her cunt, and he followed her urging and increased the pace of his licking and nuzzling. Voldemort felt her begin to shudder and tense, her thighs squeezing around him, and he drew back, face dripping with her essence. She moaned at his loss.</p><p>“Tom, please,” she begged him, “I need you inside me.” He watched her apply a lubrication spell to herself, jaw slack and eyes wide, and he shoved his trousers and pants down without any finesse.</p><p>“Ready for me, darling?”</p><p>“More than, my sweet. Ease in,” she smirked back at him.</p><p>Voldemort’s eager cock was weeping with precome as he placed his tip at her rear entrance, and he held his breath as he began to breach her. She accepted him easily, but the ring of muscle was so tight, and his anticipation so high, that he needed to steady himself once he was fully sheathed. He focused on their points of contact—her fluttering pulse in his hand over her chest, her warmth and wet in his other hand at her clit. He restrained himself until he felt her hips nudge backwards, asking for his response.</p><p>“Fuck me hard, love.”</p><p>He leaned forward, smiling into her shoulder as he began to move. He pulled out almost all the way and then slammed his hips forward, feeling his balls slap against her wet cunt, hearing her low groan as he filled her. He used one hand to rub her in pace with his quick and harsh rhythm, listening for her gasps. He felt her hand pull on his hair and choked back a moan, which emerged as a soft hiss instead. She knew just how to get his attention.</p><p>He felt the hot tension pool in his belly. “Come for me, please,” he begged, murmuring encouragements in her ear as he stroked her frantically to urge her to completion before he lost control. She whimpered and jolted, her body shaking and squeezing around him as her orgasm took her, and he followed quickly. He frantically thrust forward, pumping his release deep into her with a long sigh.</p><p>Exhausted, Voldemort collapsed forward, using one arm to brace himself against the wall and the other to pull her snugly into his body. He buried his nose into her curls with little care for the mess he would make of them, just wanting to feel her, smell her, be with her in this moment. He heard her hum lightly and felt her turn to kiss his outstretched arm, the only part of him that she could reach with her mouth. She kept her hand on his head, stroking and soothing where she had pulled earlier. She was divine.</p><p>“Happy birthday, Tom,” she whispered as she began to pull away.</p><p>“Indeed,” he agreed contentedly as he knelt to help her right her robes. He was arrested by the sight of his seed dripping out of her arse, and she shuddered as he ran his fingers through the beautiful mess between her cheeks. “I love this view.” Voldemort’s voice was hoarse and his spent cock twitched as he tucked himself away. “We will return to that thought another time,” he promised before righting her knickers and robes.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione turned before Tom could rise, and she was struck by the parallels between this evening and the Diggory party at the start of the month. Tom rested his forehead against her pelvis, his arms reaching up to circle her waist and his back again bent in the pose of a supplicant. As before, they had snuck out of the main party and done something that would embarrass themselves and the hosts if caught. However, instead of fear and worry, tonight, Hermione felt only care and tenderness for the man bowed before her.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Moving House</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Posting this tonight, a bit earlier than I had planned, because I need a distraction from the world. I hope it offers you some measure of distraction as well.</p><p>Thank you for reading, commenting, leaving kudos, and any and all love y’all have shown this story. I’m starting to feel that it’s coming to an end (three more chapters to post after this, and they’re mostly written), and I guess I’m starting to feel a little sad about that! This has been a joy to write, and I’ve come to really love my Tom and Hermione. I appreciate all of you reading along with me.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Abraxas was the first to know about their plan to create a university, but Minerva was the second. Hermione insisted. </p><p>Hermione persuaded Min to join her and Tom for tea at their flat, while term was still in session, by cashing in every stored favor in their friendship. It was a close call, as when Minerva confirmed that Tom would be present, she almost pulled out. Hermione insisted that she and Tom had a joint announcement to make, knowing that of course Min would assume marriage or pregnancy from her vagueness, and she felt only a twinge of guilt at the manipulation. Minerva would probably forget it when she heard their news, anyway.</p><p>That didn’t prevent her from avoiding the tension in the sitting room by offering to prepare their tea, of course. </p><p>Once finally settled, Tom prodded Hermione into breaking the silence. She shot him a dirty look and dove into it with all of the finesse that typified her Hogwarts house. </p><p>“Tom and I are going to start a magical university. Er—well, it won’t be a full university right away. We’ll probably start with lecture series and funded research positions. And before that, we need to find a location. So really, this is more of a five-year plan.” Tom’s sour expression deepened, but until he was willing to say something, she figured he could stand to be less critical of her efforts. “Uh, we have the vision, though. Not—not to compete with Hogwarts. We want an option for continuing education outside of apprenticeships and job training. We think it would be a great opportunity for interdisciplinary research. And, well, I—we would be honored to have your support.”</p><p>Minerva didn’t seem to know how to react. She remained composed, of course, her high-necked robes and tartan stole serving as her armor, but she hadn’t so much as sipped her tea, and the buttery shortbread biscuits on her plate were criminally untouched. Her sharp response cut through the room: “Support you how?”</p><p>“As a friend, of course!” Hermione found herself insisting. She turned to Tom and pleaded with her eyes, mentally shouting her need for backup. He shook his head infinitesimally, warning her off, so she pushed out her lower lip and tilted her head until he relented with a roll of his eyes.</p><p>“Hermione is correct; we would like the support of our friends in this new venture. We would also appreciate any advice or wisdom you might share as we navigate the educational field. Though we anticipate catering to adult learners, not children, I consider your many years of experience to be invaluable.” His tone was even and polite, and Hermione rewarded him by placing her hand on his knee before building on what Tom said. </p><p>“We’d also love to have you visit and give a talk, once we’re up and running. It might also be nice to work out some arrangement with Hogwarts to speak with NEWT-level students, but that’s at least a few years off.”</p><p>Her friend had now engaged her tea and biscuits, but her expression remained skeptical. “What sort of subjects would you teach?” Minerva asked too innocently, and Hermione leapt to respond before Tom.</p><p>“All sorts, really, depending on who we could get involved in the effort. I would love to run a seminar on custom charm creation, and I’m hoping to gain some experience with enchanting so that we can revive the use of custom charms in personal effects or household objects. The art of enchanting is almost totally unpracticed these days, other than large companies that produce mass-market goods.”</p><p>Hermione shot a quick look at Tom and pressed ahead, hoping he wouldn’t feel the need to correct anything in her next statements. “Tom, I know, is well-versed in ritual creation. He could talk for ages about the theory behind the use of runes in historical rituals.” She stressed the theory and history in that claim, hoping it wouldn’t lead to questions about Tom’s experience. “But both of us are particularly interested in opportunities for research—we’ve drawn up a list of possible patrons, and we’d like to support both grants for master-level researchers and scholarships for novices, with priority going to projects that combine multiple magical disciplines or revive understudied ones.”</p><p>Thankfully, Tom only offered a few words of confirmation after she spoke. Minerva was still hard to read, but she had finished her tea and seemed to at least be accepting her role as a guest and friend. </p><p>“Hermione, you will always have my support,” her dark-haired friend promised. “I don’t see anything objectionable in your proposal.” Tom shot Minerva a displeased look, and even Minerva seemed to blush and recognise her own rudeness. “Let me amend: I am happy for you both. This would be a fulfilling new career for you. I will also admit to being relieved that you’re uninterested in Hogwarts-aged students.”</p><p>Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat, but couldn’t lie about that to Minerva, no matter how firmly Tom had his arm wrapped around her shoulders. “We, er, thought we might—eventually, in the future—get accredited to offer accelerated NEWT courses. Mostly for people who wanted an extra qualification later in life.”</p><p>“Mostly?” Minerva’s tone was just this side of ice.</p><p>“Well... I don’t know that I would turn down a student who left Hogwarts after the OWLs. What if they realised at 17 that they wanted to sit for their exams after all?” Hermione tried to soften the blow by evoking the real predicament that a handful of students found themselves in; it was uncommon, but some wizards and witches left Hogwarts after fifth year.</p><p>Minerva deflated, conceding that an adult could make their own choices. “I don’t like that as much—Hogwarts has always been the singular school for magical education here—but at 17, it’s the student’s choice.”</p><p>To Hermione’s surprise, Tom jumped back into the conversation. “Minerva, let’s not be disingenuous with each other. There have always been families who choose to educate their children outside of Hogwarts using private tutors. Most of those families are pureblood. The rest of us,” and Hermione was surprised to see Tom openly acknowledging their shared Muggle heritage, “are led to believe that our public education is the only option. It’s a good education,” Tom was fully inhabiting his charming intellectual persona now, “but as you both well know, some students are not in a place to academically succeed in that environment at that age. If such a witch was born into a pureblood family, she might receive private tutoring, either from a professional tutor or from her family, and settle into an occupation by a respectable age. If the wizard was Muggle-raised, they might struggle at Hogwarts or even drop out, possibly leaving Wizarding society entirely. We need a structured, widely-known educational option for adults.”</p><p>Hermione felt like her tongue was caught in her mouth, and before she could interject to soften Tom’s message—a fair sentiment, but perhaps not one to find its audience in a Hogwarts employee—Minerva was responding. “You’re supposing to fix a problem of that magnitude with a private academy?”</p><p>“No,” Tom said tersely. “Our society needs more reforms than a single new educational institution could provide, and that responsibility falls, ultimately, on the Ministry. The primary mission of this venture is interdisciplinary magical research, and it is our view that by offering scholarships and accelerated fundamentals courses, we will create a pipeline from which we can recruit research assistants. In spite of our own successes within the system, Hermione and I recognise that we need a diversity of intellectual experiences if we are going to push the boundaries of known magic.” His voice had a sharp edge to it—not completely harsh, but definitely a strong warning that Minerva should consider her words carefully. </p><p>Hermione tried not to fidget. She wanted to protect both Tom and Minerva, but both were fiercely independent and would be offended if she stepped in to play defense. She was resigned to letting them have it out, at least while the topic was still relatively safe. </p><p>“What happens when the blood purists you’re courting for patronage rebel against their galleons being used to fund Muggleborn and half-blood students and researchers?”</p><p>“Abraxas Malfoy made the first pledge yesterday with no stipulations. The others will follow his example; he’s fashionable.”</p><p>They were at an impasse, glowering and glaring at their empty teacups as though the porcelain was responsible for this situation. It was almost funny, how similar Tom and Minnie could be, and Hermione might have laughed if they wouldn’t have banded together to murder her for doing so. Still, it was clearly time for her to finally intervene, and she begrudgingly filled the expected role.</p><p>“Min, we absolutely have challenges ahead of us, and I thank you for taking our new endeavor seriously enough to help us think through some of them.” <i>A bit too bluntly stated for the Slytherins in her life, but for a Gryffindor, it would do.</i> “We’re very excited to get started.” <i>We are not reconsidering this, because the alternative is Tom starting a blood purity war.</i> “On a related note,” <i>I am changing the topic now,</i> “we’re looking to relocate to a more suitable space. Do you happen to know anyone with an unused castle?”</p><p>That certainly prompted a double-take from Minerva. “A... castle?”</p><p>Tom’s smile was predatory. “We do plan to make an impression.”</p><p>“I—I can ask around,” Minerva unsteadily promised.</p><p> </p><p>Later, when Minerva had departed and Tom was clearing their dishes, he had the audacity to comment that it could have gone worse.</p>
<hr/><p>Buying a castle is a tricky thing, it turned out. What surprised Hermione was that there were actually plenty of empty castles available, if you asked around. Once she and Tom had started exercising their networks, they received many offers—even George came forward and suggested that the Fawcetts owned a property that might be suitable. She had <i>not</i> known it existed while they were married. Bloody buggering rich people could hide an entire castle in their list of assets.</p><p>No, the challenge was finding a castle that could be permanently transferred to a new owner. Apparently, many families were willing and able to negotiate habitation rights to a castle for the duration of a single lifetime. Apparently, this was an open secret, of which many families took advantage. However, severing the ancestral connection was nearly unprecedented. They initially received such strong pushback that it wasn’t clear that a property could change hands, once a blood ward had been cast, and all ancient castles had active blood wards. Tom sourced some research on blood wards—Hermione decidedly did not go with him when he described the intended sourcing process—and determined that it would be possible to transfer ownership with the right ritual. Once she and Tom were able to provide that counter-argument, a number of properties were suddenly unavailable. </p><p>The remaining stock was rough, and it became clear that they would have to perform substantial renovations and updates to any residence. Hermione turned to her age-old solution to every difficult problem: lists. They eliminated any castle in Scotland, to avoid being considered too close to Hogwarts. Properties with extensive grounds were higher on the list, especially if the grounds contained interesting terrain features, such as forests, swampland, lakes, rivers, and so forth. Tom demanded a castle with no fewer than three towers, which Hermione thought was weirdly specific, but she added it to their ranking regardless. The castle could not, of course, be located too close to a Muggle or mixed-residence village, and ideally would have historical protections that had kept it away from the attention of Muggles for its entire existence. </p><p>In the end, they found their castle through Hester, because the Diggory family was friends with the Davies family, who didn’t care all that much for historical property maintenance and especially not if the property was all the way in Wales, where they hadn’t lived for at least 200 years. Tom negotiated the selling price and Hermione felt badly for poor Keith Davies, who was a young head of the family and absolutely unprepared to deal with someone as crafty and charming as Tom. The castle was truly a wreck—at best, it could be described as having good bones—but it did sit on a massive parcel of land. The castle itself stood at the top of a cliff overlooking a river valley, surrounded by some scrubby forest. It was perfect.</p><p>Except that it was completely uninhabitable. Even Tom, in all his enthusiasm, admitted that they really should hire a professional renovation company to make one of the (four) towers livable before attempting to take on further work themselves. The delay gave them time to work on logistics and securing pledges. They managed to set up a floo connection and make the property unplottable easily enough, but the patronage remained a more stubborn concern.</p><p>A handful of Tom’s acquaintances had happily donated to their endeavor. Abraxas Malfoy, of course, would have given Tom nearly any amount of money for practically any reason. Daniel Rosier was also forthcoming, as he and Amandine considered themselves to be well-paired with Tom and Hermione. Cygnus and Druella Black had been a surprise to Hermione, but she supposed that Cygnus must be pleased that the project would keep Tom away from instigating political unrest, and having Daniel’s sister for a wife couldn’t hurt matters.</p><p>Unfortunately, many of the others were less enthusiastic. Lestrange and Nott, in particular, had been almost appalled when Tom introduced his plans to them. Nott, at least, had always fancied himself a scholar and eventually conceded a nominal sum after some negotiation. Lestrange required a few lingering applications of the Cruciatus, which Hermione excused herself from attending. She had tried to talk Tom down from casting the Unforgivable but he had rather pointedly made clear that Lestrange could not be ignored, or he might attempt to foment an opposition movement that would make it difficult for them to be seen as a legitimate educational option. </p><p>Hermione let him win that argument, but she endeavored to come up with another line of defense so that torturing pureblood patriarchs wouldn’t be a necessary long-term strategy. It had been quite some time since she’d last tried to impress broader Wizarding society on her own, but she fervently threw herself back in to taking tea and attending intimate social events with the types of families that Tom would never have approached. Fawcett was a given—she had unofficially given George her blessing to remarry, and he paid her back by supporting her new career with a one-time pledge. She reached out to the Fawleys through Amandine and the Selwyns and Diggorys through Hester, making enough progress in those circles to earn an invite to lunch with a young Shafiq heiress and to attend a quidditch match with a Prewett, where she met a different branch of the Blacks and a Macmillan. Frankly, the effort to keep all of these names straight made her head spin, and Tom was more gifted than she in charming money out of people, but these were mostly families that would not have opened their doors to an unknown like Tom, a former Slytherin who had disappeared from polite society for years. Hermione was a curiosity to many of them, a funny little Muggleborn witch with big ideas and just such an earnest pitch, and she hated it, but she would play the role if it meant that the next time one of Tom’s followers tried to stand up to him, they could walk away without fear and without being backed into using violence.</p><p>The fundraising and construction took a few months, and by the time that they were ready to move house, it was nearly summer again and a year had passed since Tom returned to England.</p>
<hr/><p>Voldemort came back into their new bedroom from the entry parlor, where all of their worldly possessions sat, carrying a box of toiletries. It was the sort of unconsciously Muggle habit that he found himself slipping into when he was alone with Hermione, manually carrying things rather than levitating them. The physical exertion felt invigorating, and she would never have commented, or even noticed, that he wasn’t doing something the Wizarding way. When he arrived, he saw Hermione wearing one of his old uniform blazers. “Merlin, woman, is that mine? Where did you find that?”</p><p>She turned toward his voice, smiling broadly and posing for his approval. “There was a bag full of shrunken clothing in one of your boxes. I think it has all your old Hogwarts uniforms, Tom—it’s a treasure trove. I found blazers, scarves, robes, even some old socks in your house colors. D’you mind if wear this?”</p><p>“I wouldn’t have fit in that since fourteen, it must be thirty years old by now.” He appraised the cut; it was boxy and a little wide at her shoulders but fit her perfectly in length. “You look good in it; keep it. I cannot believe we used to wear three-button jackets. The size of that Hogwarts crest is absurd: it’s practically the whole left breast.”</p><p>“It’s <i>vintage</i>, love. Do you feel old yet?” Her teasing was good-natured, but he glared at her anyway.</p><p>“I am ageless.”</p><p>“Sure, ageless, but you were a child at some point, because otherwise I have no way to explain why the shoulders on this are so narrow compared to yours. Wow, you would have been precious. I wish we’d known each other as children!”</p><p>Voldemort scoffed at her nonsensical request. “You’re eight years younger. Even if we had somehow met, I would have naturally ignored you because you were a little girl.”</p><p>“But what if we were the same age?” Hermione persisted in this flight of fancy, apparently content to ignore the very real memory of himself as a boy contained in the diary. She dramatically threw herself backward to lie on the bare mattress. He sighed and moved a box from a chair so he could sit off the floor. “Did you talk to girls your age at all?”</p><p>“Barely. Nearly every boy in Slytherin was betrothed, so they never dated, and illicit snogs in a broom cupboard hold less appeal when you’ve no parents to rebel against.”<br/>
There had been some illicit snogs, of course, but Voldemort hadn’t really become interested in sexual engagements until much later than his peers might have guessed.</p><p>“Girls are good for more than a snog and a shag, Tom!” Her affronted tone was somewhat reduced in effect because her feet didn’t reach the floor from her position, dangling jauntily from over the edge of the bed. He found himself smiling at the sight.</p><p>“Did you have male friends?”</p><p>“Er—well, that is, my closest friends were Min, Di, and Hester, so I didn’t really feel a need for—“ He laughed at her obvious hypocrisy, and she gave up the front. “Fine! No, no close male friends, just snogs and shags in broom cupboards, you brat.”</p><p>He couldn’t help himself for asking. “Anyone interesting?”</p><p>Hermione pondered the question. “I attended my first Yule Ball with Barty Crouch, does that suffice? He’s some bigwig in the DMLE now, but he was visibly gunning for Minister even in fourth year. Terribly boring, your stereotypical Ravenclaw.”</p><p>“That hardly sounds illicit,” he found himself teasing her.</p><p>“If you want illicit, that would be Rowle. Slytherin, quidditch player, a year younger than me, and wow he made seventh year memorable. Min would have eaten me alive if she knew I was going around with a Slytherin boy!” Hermione looked undaunted by the threat of her friend, in contrast to her statement. She was kicking her heels merrily against the bed frame.</p><p>“You shagged the boy but don’t use his first name?” Voldemort was surprised; Hermione always referred to her ex-husband as George.</p><p>She laughed, hinting at some bigger story. “He called me Granger. It was our arrangement, see? We pretended to hate each other and then I’d push him into an empty classroom for some fun. Awful dynamic. It was the right sort of mistake for that age, though. I learned not to be someone’s secret.” She seemed to reminisce for a few silent moments, but was soon shaking away her thoughts and picking up elsewhere. “So you didn’t date at all until after Hogwarts? You once told me about the Atherton woman in your twenties, but it sounded like she was more of a social ticket. Was there anyone interesting for you?”</p><p>“Mmm,” Voldemort hummed to delay. He wasn’t, precisely, embarrassed about having dated fewer people than Hermione—both of them were well past any ‘firsts’ by the time they met. It was just that, well, those past dalliances all felt a bit vulgar when compared with her fond nostalgia for her younger years. He held no such fond feelings for any woman before Hermione. “I had an arrangement with Sedgwick Selwyn in ‘53. I pretended to court her for a year, long enough for her family to stop attempting to make their own betrothal. She was rather uninterested in marriage.”</p><p>“What did you get in exchange?” she hounded.</p><p>“Assume the worst of me, will you?” Voldemort laughed in response.</p><p>Hermione threw up her hands. “You called it an ‘arrangement,’ not me!”</p><p>“Invitations to every pureblood social event that year and a quite substantial amount of galleons, it turns out. Oh, and she purchased all of our courting gifts.” His favorite snake and sword cloak pin was among them; he would never have been able to afford a custom piece like that at the time, and it had become a staple item for him in the intervening years.</p><p>She shot him a wicked grin. “You were a kept man! A ponce! Tom, you devil!”</p><p>“If you’re quite done,” he spat back.</p><p>“Oh, never. Here, I thought I was the only woman whose fortune you ever lived off of. I thought I was special, darling.” Hermione was laying it on thick, and Voldemort couldn’t help an indulgent smile.</p><p>“Lord Voldemort is not a kept man, and if you would like to keep enjoying his mercy, you might get a move on unpacking our bedroom.”</p><p>“Lord Voldemort is hiding behind the third person, I see. Tom Riddle, though, seems to have enjoyed our break well enough.” She heaved herself upright with a grunt, intent on returning to their abandoned task. “You’re lucky: I do want to sleep on sheets tonight, and I still haven’t found the linens. Why did we label all of the bedroom boxes ‘bedroom,’ instead of specifying their contents?”</p><p>“Chin up, dear. We only have to do this the one time.”</p><p>She approached him, and Voldemort let himself be pulled into a hug. “Our home, forever. Oh, Tom.” Hermione didn’t say the words, but she opened her mind to him, and he lost himself in her love.</p><p> </p><p>Later that night, Voldemort and Hermione were settled into their bed, the room lit only by candles and the low fire in the hearth. He had been considering something all day, and in the dark of night, alone with Hermione, he was ready to make his decision official.</p><p>He turned to her and took her hand between his own, watching as her attention snapped to him immediately, her large, brown eyes so devotedly trained on his face. Merlin, was she pretty like this.</p><p>“Yes, Tom?” Her sweet voice prompted him.</p><p>“Hermione,” his voice was low and determined, “I would like to make a commitment.” He paused, unacknowledged nerves rising within him. “I—I want to name our new home Voldemort Castle.”</p><p>Her eyes widened ever-so-slightly, but he was pleased to see that Hermione betrayed no signs of revulsion. If anything, he read some sentimentality in her soft expression. When she spoke, her voice was comforting. “Are you sure? You should know that if we do this, you’ll never be able to use that name to preserve your anonymity.”</p><p>“I am aware,” he said with no bite, “I would be tying the name Tom Riddle to the title Lord Voldemort in a highly public fashion. But I, I don’t want to do this halfway. I want this to succeed, and I want to succeed under my chosen name.” He wasn’t ready to completely walk away from his original plans—he would find a way to start a political revolution with the pureblood ruling class if the school fell through—but Voldemort had realised that he wanted this home and this venture to work. He had moved into a new home, his <i>own</i> home, with Hermione... and why shouldn’t that be his end goal? A year ago, he had thought to indefinitely occupy a guest wing of Malfoy Manor, and today, the same thought had no appeal.</p><p>“You would be the Lord of Voldemort Castle,” Hermione put words to his unspoken thoughts. “You could openly use your title, and no one could question it.”</p><p>He moved one hand to cup her cheek. “You would be the Lady of the castle, my dear.” She blanched and he laughed at her discomfort. His Hermione never would be happy with such a blatant display of class and privilege. “Accept it, because you will be referred to as such so long as you live here with me.”</p><p>Her voice was a warning, but he couldn’t feel concerned, not tonight. “Tom, you should know that I never again wish to occupy the role of a society wife.”</p><p>“Then it should be some comfort that we are above society, and you are not my wife, love. I will personally administer the necessary correction to anyone who insists you are an insufficient Lady. Whatever you wish the role to be, it shall be,” Voldemort vowed without reservation, and he watched her eyes darken in satisfaction. His incredible Hermione would find a purpose in her power; he trusted in that completely.</p>
<hr/><p>“We just—we don’t have enough money to do that, Tom,” Hermione said forcefully. “Our budget allows us to outfit four standard classrooms and six lab spaces. I’m sorry, but a dueling practice space with the equipment you’ve requested would cost as much as three of those lab spaces, and we’ve already promised five researchers that they could have their own labs. You’ll have to run your students through an outdoor or unfinished space for training; we didn’t start planning for you to teach a Defense NEWT course until last month.” She paused and rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hands, shoulders tense. “Lord, I just—I thought I would have had more time to work on the ritual for your horcruxes after we were settled here. I’m close, but with the school’s budget...”</p><p>Voldemort sighed and scratched his quill through a few lines on his parchment. His lesson plans hadn’t hinged on the dueling practice space, but not having one would require him to reorder the weeks he had allocated for training. His accelerated Defense course students couldn’t be expected to train outdoors in January, after all, so he would have to restrict them to localised personal incapacitation spells during the winter months. </p><p>It wasn’t that they were broke, not really. Hermione had insisted on investing some 10% of their total donations through Gringotts, and he agreed that this was financially sensible. However, they couldn’t touch that money, and purchasing a castle and paying for some of the necessary renovations and Ministry permits had been expensive. They had already cut back on the number of major improvements planned for this year, as they didn’t have the funds to hire assistance and were stuck completing much of the work themselves. Hermione was highly adept at charms, and he could permanently transfigure crumbling stone into solid walls, but it required a lot of magical exertion from them and, worse, they needed to settle on the appearance of the end result before they could perform any magic. Neither Voldemort nor Hermione was an architect. </p><p>And as Hermione liked to remind him, operating costs for the year would be their real concern. She had estimated them and put money aside, which couldn’t be repurposed, either. Voldemort had discovered during their discussion of these expenses that Hermione didn’t support the use of house elves—she was full of surprises like that—and so they were allocating things like stipends for kitchen employees and housekeepers. It was all a bit absurd and incomprehensible to him, but she seemed satisfied to manage their accounts, and so he submitted his requests and followed her feedback without much complaint.</p><p>“I’ve confirmed twenty enrollments in the Defense course so far,” Voldemort offered after some pause. “Five will be Malfoy Scholars and fifteen will be paying tuition. I’ve heard interest from another dozen or so potential students, and I’m following up with them this week.”</p><p>“That’s great news, Tom!” Hermione beamed at him and noted noted something in the column of one of her tables. “Abraxas will be pleased to hear that his scholarships are already in use. They know about the mandatory internship component after their NEWT scores come in?” He nodded his confirmation. “Speaking of NEWTs, have you heard back from the Ministry?”</p><p>“Yes, the accreditor we will be working with is a Crabbe, a cousin of Cygnus on his mother’s side. She already agreed that quarterly observations should be sufficient for the probationary period, at least until our first batch of NEWT scores return.” Earlena Crabbe had been so pleased to reduce her required visits from fortnightly to quarterly when offered an invitation to the donor’s gala.</p><p>“Good, good. If we can secure five more students in your class this year, we’ll have enough money to add another residential suite before the new year. That would bring our capacity to a dozen live-in researchers, in addition to the twenty beds for apprentice-level students in our traditional dorm.” Hermione parted her mouth slightly, and he watched her tongue dart out to wet her lips as she concentrated. He loved that she had a mind for these details. “I think you should write to the Arithmancer you met abroad again.”</p><p>“Peugnet?” The Frenchman had been on their list of researchers to recruit, as he had promising theories on using Arithmancy to increase harvest yield for magical plants.</p><p>“Yes, him. We haven’t tried since before Hester found us a sponsor for the greenhouse, and we should try again.” Voldemort scribbled a note on his list of ongoing tasks. Yes, Peugnet had seemed interested even without the greenhouse, so he might be ready to commit now. His work would also appeal to the Ministry and some of the less open-minded patrons, it was so clearly a neutral use of magic. As loath as he was to admit it, Voldemort knew they needed the non-Slytherin families. The plurality of influential pureblood families were Slytherins from his cohort, but families who typically sorted into the other three houses made up the majority, and they were very nervous about pledging more galleons to a project that could be considered Dark. Salazar, who knew that running a school would be so expensive.</p>
<hr/><p>Tom eventually decided that Hermione should take a week off of planning for the university, and to her absolute horror, he’d even managed to hide all of her notes to enforce it. Left with nothing else to do, she settled into the remainder of her horcrux research.</p><p>In the end, the solution was simple—or, at least, simple given the magic involved. A soul rent by the commission of violence could only be healed by feeling remorse, an emotion so alien to Tom that he could not generate it on his own. Anything that could force him to feel remorse would be potentially devastating to his person, even when considering solutions that involved incomplete or limited feelings of remorse, so that was right out. However, Hermione was fully capable of feeling remorse. If anything, she was a well of such emotions, and so the natural path was to use her capacity for emotion to fix Tom. It wouldn’t be the same as the man himself experiencing remorse, but that worked in their favor: as the feeling was not his own, his horcruxes shouldn’t be fully reversed, just bound together by the strength of her emotion. </p><p>There were details to work out before fully considering the plan. Creating a ritual turned out to be relatively fast—she could use the fundamental principles of soul-bonding used in adoption and marriage rites to anchor Tom’s soul to herself. The part that required more consideration was whether she wanted to be his anchor. No other person could be considered, of course. Hermione either agreed to take part, or Tom’s soul remained in distinct pieces. She wasn’t afraid of the magic involved; nothing in her ritual would create a compulsion in either her or Tom, and she didn’t anticipate that the process would be painful. No, she was concerned about the implications on their relationship. To perform this role would mean that she guarded his soul for as long as she lived, and she had no idea what might happen after her death. Hermione loved Tom, fiercely and with her whole being, but what if that changed in the future? Would his soul fly apart again? Would she remain somehow aware of him, even if they parted their lives?</p><p>They would just have to take it day-by-day and rely on communication to get them through the challenges. It wasn’t another marriage. She could make the commitment.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Healing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They set up for the soul-binding ritual on a warm evening in early July. Researchers would begin moving into the castle on the first of August, and Hermione was nervous about the immediate effects that Tom could experience. She wanted him to have a month to recover from the ritual—if he was impacted for more than a month, there would be no way to hide it from others anyway. She hoped it did not come down to that situation. They hadn’t planned for it.</p>
<p>Hermione prepared the ritual circle alone in the late afternoon, drawing with chalk, inscribing with blood, and scattering a few more-or-less legal objects at key points around the perimeter. They had chosen the central courtyard for its proximity to their public floo, should there be an emergency that Hermione could not handle alone. The ground was dry and warm after some days with no rain, and any other night, Hermione might have laid out a blanket and made Tom point out constellations until it was late. It was the type of romantic summer evening that they were almost in a place to enjoy—just this final hurdle, really. Perhaps next year. There was always next year.</p>
<p>It was Tom’s job to arrange the horcruxes, and so once her role in drawing the ritual circle was complete, Hermione retreated indoors to prepare herself. She would be binding her soul to Tom’s tonight, and so she bathed and dressed in only a simple cotton robe, left open at the front, in anticipation. She was anxious, of course. Hermione was rarely not anxious about major events; she had learned to enjoy small moments without overthinking them, but she had not yet shaken the impulse to spiral when confronted with something potentially life-altering. After dragging her comb through her damp hair for the fourth time that evening, Tom finally retrieved her and directed her back outdoors. No amount of anxiety on Hermione’s part could delay this.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They seated themselves at the center of the ritual circle with his horcruxes spaced evenly around them. To initiate the ritual, Voldemort placed his left index finger on Hermione’s hip, at the tip of the bone, and watched as their magic met. It swirled together in an embrace, tracing lines across her skin that writhed and grew and colored in bright, virile green and molten, shining gold, outlining eyes and scales and fangs and a long, slender body to form the only possible symbol of Tom’s presence, a serpent. A green serpent, for his heritage, but with golden eyes, which could only be the work of Hermione’s magic. He stroked his finger along the serpent’s head, watching it relax in response to his touch, and whispered to it in parseltongue. <i>”You are lucky, hatchling. You will connect me to my precious most intimately.”</i></p>
<p>He was startled by Hermione’s gasp, immediately moving to clutch her shoulders should the joining of their magic have overwhelmed her and caused her to collapse. She appeared strong, though, and she pushed away to look at him directly, saying, “Tom, I understood you.” In parseltongue, she continued, <i>”I have the ability to speak it, too.”</i> The snake on her hip danced with pride, mute but aware.</p>
<p>There was only one explanation. “We must have successfully connected our souls. The first part of the ritual has succeeded. You are—you have joined the bloodline of Slytherin, and you have access to some of my ancestral power. It’s... remarkable.” And it was—he hadn’t spoken to another magical person with the gift of parseltongue since  meeting his insane, inbred uncle as a boy. It was an incredibly rare practice, one that felt innate and sacred to Voldemort, and... and he could now share it with someone, he realised, someone who he was actually excited to share it with. They were special, together.</p>
<p>Hermione urged his attention to the next task. “Are you prepared for this? We don’t know what this part will feel like, so I need to hear that you’re ready.” He and Hermione were still seated in the center of the ritual circle, surrounded by his horcruxes, which had so far remained dormant. Voldemort would never admit to fear of pain, and he would only admit to concern about the risk being undertaken by Hermione in front of his closest companions, but deep in his heart, he carried some fear. They had researched and planned, but this was unprecedented—using the emotions of one soul to help heal another—and they could only predict so much.</p>
<p>He wanted Hermione to be safe. But he wanted to protect his weakened soul just as much, and she had already consented. So Voldemort nodded his confirmation and watched her begin.</p>
<p>Hermione’s face started calm and blank, but quickly screwed up into the look of intense concentration that she sometimes got when researching. Her eyes were closed, her mouth scrunched, and he found her incredibly captivating. She looked like she was determined to solve all the burdens of the world, and that incredible ambition drew him in. It was even more incredible to know that she was applying her boundless self-assurance to doing the impossible, mending his torn soul, because she cared about him. Voldemort thought that it was... nice, having Hermione’s consistent and committed affection. He’d had friendship, before, with Abraxas. He’d had more than a reasonable share of admiration. He had certainly been an object of desire. But Hermione expressed all of those and more, an honest love, a love that hadn’t seemed to come with conditions or an expectation that he change.</p>
<p>No, Hermione always pushed him to consider alternatives, to widen his scope of possibilities, but she had never issued an ultimatum. She had pledged to end their relationship if she couldn’t accept him, not insisted that he must mold himself to her demands. She established boundaries and understood that she only had control over her own actions. </p>
<p>And... Voldemort had begun to compromise, hadn’t he? He had learned to accept her perspective, to hear advice from another person and incorporate it into his plans. He hadn’t always followed her suggestions exactly, he pushed back and adapted, but she never expected him to do otherwise. In return for his compromise, she had made concessions for him. She had changed her career plan so they could start an educational institution together. She had made peace with the necessity of his pureblood acquaintances, trusting him to continue to respect her despite their prejudices. Salazar, she had agreed to bind their souls in order to heal the damage he inflicted upon himself to ensure his own immortality—that was nothing if not proof her her love. And he must love her, in return, to have trusted her with the responsibility. It was a ritual built on centuries of magic used to bind families: parents and children through adoption, spouses through marriage... she was as good as his spouse, even if this magic wouldn’t be recognised by the Ministry. They’d created a new type of binding, something that could only be used by someone who had thoroughly broken himself and someone unbroken, who cherished him more than anyone else, and it would tie them forever.</p>
<p>A mixture of emotions surged through Voldemort. He understood, with some shock, that one was love—it was surprisingly familiar, in comparison to the other, and he realised that he’d carried it with him for years now as his affection for Hermione grew. It was a large and warm presence. But as soon as he had identified it, it was overwhelmed by something bigger, something that definitely did not originate inside himself. This emotion felt... not dangerous, like his anger or fear, but not warm and comfortable either. It was like embarrassment, if embarrassment had a wider scope and made you sad, too. Instead of burning, it lingered. It was a weight. It sat in his limbs, not his stomach, where hot, fleeting emotions took root. This was like a chain that bound him to—to his sins. He would carry them forever. They were as much a part of his identity as anything else, and he could never escape them, and this emotion, this <i>remorse</i>, would remind him that he had committed them for eternity.</p>
<p>Unlike the love, it wasn’t his emotion. Love had seeped through the connection from Hermione, but it had tangled with his own affection and settled, a natural part of his being. The remorse, and that must be the correct term, was fully hers. He now contained it—barely, it felt like he was trying to put a wall around a tidal wave—but he did not own it. She imposed it upon him. She would flood him with it, and he could only keep his head above water and learn to survive. How could someone feel this much for another’s sins?</p>
<p>Voldemort gradually allowed himself to regain awareness of the external world. The feeling of experiencing this much emotion, without that emotion being anger, was unsteadying. He didn’t want to move, for fear that he might lose balance, and was thankful to see that he was still seated. Hermione was missing, moved from her place in front of him. Wait, no: Hermione was seated behind him, her arms wrapped loosely around his stomach. She had moved somehow, while he was in his own mind? Had he closed his eyes? He took a deep breath and stroked her arm to let her know that he was present.</p>
<p>She pulled her arms tight, drawing his back fully against her. “You’ve been out for an hour,” she informed him. Voldemort appreciated that even in the uncertainty of the situation, Hermione knew he would want a report on his circumstances first. “I was worried you might be in pain, when you seemed unresponsive, but I observed no physical reactions. The horcruxes are also physically unaffected. They all still bear your magical signature and they seem somewhat calmer, especially the ring, than they have previously. I did not engage any of them; you can probably do so without entering them.”</p>
<p>He nodded along before tapping his wand to each horcrux in turn, confirming that they all seemed to be functioning as normal. Whenever he interacted with one, he felt a strange sort of pull, just an awareness of part of himself, as if someone had brushed against him in a crowd. “I think,” his voice cracked, and he started again, “I think it worked. I feel them. I’ve never felt them before.”</p>
<p>“It’s strange,” Hermione mumbled into the back of his shirt, “I had expected something more dramatic. Not that I wanted to see you screaming or in pain, but... you sat here, like you were just lost in thought. There was no surge of magic. We just sat together quietly, and somehow, your soul is mended.”</p>
<p>Voldemort shrugged, unsure how to admit that the experience, as anticlimactic as it was, had left him exhausted in a way that was totally foreign to him. She seemed to sense his discomfort and prodded him: “what was it like for you?”</p>
<p>“I, er, felt things. I think it was mostly your emotions. It was new to me, but I think it was, well, remorse. I think I felt you feeling remorse for my horcruxes. I don’t—I’m not sure how you have lived with that. You truly experience that every time something happens that you consider unjust?”</p>
<p>He felt the smile she pressed into his shoulder. “Yes,” she said simply. “And I learned how to process it. Often, we cannot fix our mistakes, once made. We have to try and learn from them, and make better choices in the future.”</p>
<p>Voldemort was confused. The feeling that chained him to his past was supposed to be used to improve his future? “How could that work? If you’ve wronged someone, they’re not going to just give you a second chance out of the goodness of their heart.”</p>
<p>“Some people forgive, Tom,” Hermione admonished him gently. Forgiveness—that was still an unknown feeling to him. “And if someone does not wish to forgive a person who wronged them, that’s their choice to make. We don’t get to control others’ feelings toward us. We accept their boundaries and we hope that we become better people with time, even if some will never acknowledge it.”</p>
<p>“I will never be a good person, Hermione.” Voldemort could do much, learn much, but he could not allow the woman so central to his life to labor under a delusional hope that he might be reformed into something contrary to his base nature.</p>
<p>He should not have been concerned; she accepted him readily. “No, you won’t. I think I might not be a good person, either, if I’m using my capacity for emotion to absolve a murderer of the consequences of his actions. I don’t expect goodness of you. But I do expect that you will learn and never stop striving to improve yourself, and I hope that some of that improvement will effect positive change, because I know that with or without me, you will not ever stop trying to make an impact on our world.”</p>
<p>Voldemort felt whole, and seen, and he hummed his approval and leaned back into the tiny being that had offered him absolution when he had neither deserved nor requested it. Her soft, warm voice drifted through the descending fog of exhaustion as she urged them both into their home and bed, where they fell deeply into sleep.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Hermione woke to the sound of high-pitched screaming. Her head snapped immediately to Tom, who was kneeling on the bed with his head in his hands. Reality filtered in quickly—Tom screaming, ritual last night—and Hermione leaped to action. </p>
<p>Blood? No, no blood. No other bodily fluids present, either.</p>
<p>Internal damage? A basic diagnostic charm, near the limit of her abilities, revealed nothing particularly unusual.</p>
<p>Why was he still screaming?</p>
<p>“Tom?” Hermione gripped his shoulder and shook him with purpose. “Tom! What’s happening?”</p>
<p>Tom finally registered her presence and stopped screaming. He looked <i>devastated</i>, his dark eyes filled with existential despair. Shakily, he withdrew his hands from his head and Hermione saw the damage: his hands came away full of hair.</p>
<p>Tom’s hair was falling out everywhere. Clumps of grey covered his pillow.</p>
<p>“Oh fuck,” Hermione breathed as the enormity of the situation hit her. “Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.” She could fix bodies. In preparation for last night, she had spent weeks learning to patch and regrow all manner of human flesh well enough to get Tom to a healer. She hadn’t planned for hair.</p>
<p><i>Abraxas!</i> Abraxas knew hair. If there was magic to fix hair, Abraxas would know it.</p>
<p>Hermione launched herself out of bed and into the floo, barely missing burning herself as the powder made contact with the flame. Her shrieked “Malfoy Manor!” transformed instantly into a plea for the patriarch of the house as the call connected, and she implored a bewildered-looking house elf to send Abraxas through immediately. She had just covered herself in a dressing gown when the blonde stepped through the hearth and into their bedroom.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Abraxas was pulled from his early-morning paperwork by Dobby, who was worrying his ears over Miss Hermione. That was highly unusual behavior for the Riddle-Granger household and Lord Malfoy actually hurried to present himself.</p>
<p>His first surprise was stepping through the floo to arrive in their bedroom, not a visiting space.</p>
<p>His second surprise was having a barely-covered Hermione pull him bodily toward the bed.</p>
<p>His final surprise was seeing Lord Voldemort, nude and kneeling, staring vacantly into space and holding fistfuls of his own hair.</p>
<p>“Miss Granger,” his voice came out faintly, “I see why you have called me.” She did nothing but nod in response, eyes wide and pleading.</p>
<p>Abraxas steadied himself with a deep breath and resolved to evaluate the situation thoroughly. He would not fail his Lord’s trust.</p>
<p>“Right. Hermione, help him to get up. I want him in a chair,” Abraxas summoned the wooden desk chair closer to Voldemort’s bedside, coaxing him to sit upright in it with a bit of force on the man’s shoulders. “Next, a towel and his hair comb. Can you find those for me?” She rushed off to the bathroom, apparently forgetting her magic, before returning to hand him a comb and throw the towel over Voldemort’s lap. “Not for his modesty, woman!” Muggle sensibilities, really. Abraxas yanked the towel back and draped it around the man’s neck instead. </p>
<p>Abraxas was fantastically well-informed about personal grooming charms. A Malfoy never looked less than perfect, and though other families sometimes mocked this trait as a manifestation of vanity (anyone who looked like a Malfoy would deserve their vanity) or as a pedestrian interest (Malfoys knew to practice self-reliance in all important matters), none could deny their expertise. Whatever was happening, if it was fixable, Abraxas could fix it.</p>
<p>He pulled the fine-toothed comb gently through the hair at the back of Voldemort’s head. As suspected, quite a bit of it came loose and fell down onto the towel and the floor. Yes, he was losing hair, not yanking it out. Abraxas continued to comb out the loose hair gently, alternating with massaging the scalp to prevent clumping, until he felt confident in the situation. By the end of Abraxas’ work, Voldemort’s head was over half bald, with sparse hairs and the occasional dark patch still firmly rooted to his scalp. He looked awful. Abraxas had never before seen the extent of the scarring on Voldemort’s body, but now, in all of the man’s naked glory, it was a frighteningly unattractive picture.</p>
<p>Conjuring two chairs, he gestured for Hermione to take a seat next to Voldemort as he sat himself across from them. She took her partner’s hand in her own, and he was overwhelmed with a feeling of recognition—the two sitting in front of him looked like a married couple waiting for bad news about their child in the headmaster’s office. That they were instead near-catatonic due to hair loss, was, well... that thought was better left unfinished while Voldemort could see his eyes.</p>
<p>“Hermione, Tom’s grey hair is falling out—<i>just</i> the grey hair.” Her eyes widened at the implications of this statement. “He is not losing black hair.”</p>
<p>“Just... just the greys,” she repeated. Voldemort still had not so much as acknowledged Abraxas.</p>
<p>“Yes, only grey hair. I propose that I fully shave his head to confirm this, but I suspect—and I will not ask how this could be the case—that his hair will grow in fully black.”</p>
<p>Hermione’s mouth parted in a small ‘o’ of surprise, but she seemed to understand that nothing else could explain the unusual pattern of hair loss. She ventured a question: “Can you help him grow it back faster? He won’t... like being bald.”</p>
<p>Abraxas could almost laugh at the absurdity of this situation. His Lord, waylaid by hair loss. It must be true that every man had some vanity.</p>
<p>“I’m afraid that hair growth charms and potions will only somewhat speed his... recovery. I anticipate he will still require a month of regular treatment to restore his usual style. And, Hermione, perhaps you would be willing to convey this to Tom again, once he returns to us?”</p>
<p>She smiled at him knowingly. Hermione had been wasted on Gryffindor. “Yes, I do think I could manage that if you can give him a trim.” She dropped Voldemort’s hand to reach for Abraxas’ own, clasping him warmly. He was taken aback—Lord Voldemort’s partner was engaging in physical affection with him. Salazar, this family was strange. “Thank you, Abraxas. I owe you for this.” Salazar, indeed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tom looked terrible as a bald man. Hermione loved him but love was not enough to deny the reality of their situation. Still, he had looked much worse before the trim, so bald was the better of the two options. She’d managed a minor hair growth charm under Abraxas’ guidance, and though it was less effective than a potion would be, it did confirm that his hair follicles all appeared to be in working order and that his hair would grow back black. Abraxas promised to deliver some hair growth potions, procured discreetly, within the next day. It would have to do.</p>
<p>More pressingly—at least, to Hermione, who had not just lost all of her hair—they needed to test whether the ritual had restored Tom’s responsiveness to healing magic. Once Hermione cleaned their bed and helped Tom settle back into it, she set about applying a healing balm for treating scar tissue to Tom’s body. They had run some arithmantic calculations to model possible healing responses, and most had suggested that if his body was responsive, they would see evidence within the first week. </p>
<p>It was a long week. Tom recovered from his shock by the afternoon of the first day, but he was taciturn and embarrassed. He spent most of his time working on lesson plans at his desk, which still resided in their bedroom, while Hermione awkwardly read by the hearth. They had a whole castle and yet they spent their days in one room. It was enough to make Hermione understand why most families had stopped living in castles. She couldn’t wait until they started taking on students and hosting researchers; they needed some reason to use the other spaces. By the end of the observation week, though, she knew the boredom had been worthwhile.</p>
<p>As Tom undressed in preparation for his nightly application of healing balm, Hermione evaluated his scarring critically. “A substantial amount of the minor scarring on your calves and arms has cleared up. The more recent raised scars on your back seem to have disappeared, as well, though what appears to be older scar tissue is still unchanged. I think we should keep treating the area for a full month, then re-evaluate and determine whether a stronger treatment could help.”</p>
<p>Her tone was formal, even, and it made Tom’s tremulous response stand out in stark contrast. “I’m... healing?”</p>
<p>Hermione was struck by what this must mean for him. He had not had a normal response to healing magic for almost thirty years—not since he was still a boy. He probably didn’t know what was happening after those first two horcruxes, created when he was a teen, and she was filled with anguish at the thought of him discovering this abnormality, having to hide it from the school matron or friends when his minor colds didn’t go away with a single Pepper-up potion. Seeing a standard healing balm reduce the appearance of old scars must be unbelievable, something he had never dreamed possible.</p>
<p>She was broken from the onslaught of feelings by a pained expression on Tom’s face. “What’s wrong?” Hermione demanded, ready to jump into action.</p>
<p>“I can feel your thoughts. It is highly unpleasant.”</p>
<p>“Can’t you always skim bits of what I’m thinking?” She’d grown so accustomed to that trait, it seemed odd that it would be causing him discomfort now.</p>
<p>“No, it’s—“ Tom seemed to search for the correct words, “—not Legilimency. It’s as though I’m experiencing the same emotion. I know that you are... upset on my behalf, which I assure you is quite unnecessary.” Despite his words, Hermione noticed that he hadn’t stopped tracing the newly-smooth skin of his forearm. </p>
<p>“What does this mean?” She turned her brain to dissecting this revelation. “On the night of the ritual, you asked me if I ‘always felt this way,’ I recall, so we must have shared some sort of emotional connection like that again. I thought it might be temporary, a momentary effect of the ritual, but this might be the same.”</p>
<p>“Mm,” Tom thought. “What was happening when I reacted, just now?”</p>
<p>“I was thinking about... about what it must mean to you, to be able to, to heal using standard magic, after so many years.” She could feel the same emotions rising within her: a deep sadness for a much younger Tom. “I was thinking about how horrible it must have been for you to realise that healing magic wasn’t effective on you, and at such a young age, still attending school...” Her heart hurt.</p>
<p>Tom winced again, a grimace flickering across his face, even as understanding dawned. “I believe this is another expression of remorse. You’re regretting the impact on me of my horcrux creation process, something I have certainly never done.”</p>
<p>Hermione nodded silently; his theory made sense.</p>
<p>“Salazar, I’ll spend an eternity experiencing unexpected bouts of remorse whenever you get sentimental.”</p>
<p>Hermione couldn’t help the wild laughter that escaped her. She was bent double, clutching her sides as manic tears sprung from her eyes at the implication of his words. When she recovered enough for speech, she exclaimed, “It serves you right, Tom Riddle! You made those bloody things, and now you will know how a normal person would live with that.”</p>
<p>“Hermione, dearest, you are anything but normal. Did we not determine your suitability precisely because you have the emotional capacity for two people?”</p>
<p>She huffed in a mixture of concession and acknowledgment, moving on from the petty argument. “Anyway, we know you’re healing now. We don’t know if your healing response is fully restored to a normal range or if it’s still reduced, but I don’t see a reason to test that immediately. Let’s focus on treating the accrued damage—do you think you could examine the magical signature of the curse wound on your side? The color seems like it might have reduced, but it’s difficult to tell.”</p>
<p>Tom rolled his eyes as if to suggest that <i>of course he could manage that, who did she take him for</i>, and she indulged his little display with a pat on the shoulder. He interpreted the glowing runes of his spell for her benefit. “The readings appear similar to what they were initially. The wound is still contained. I should try a counter-curse and check again.”</p>
<p>“Lie down first, you reckless man!” Hermione interrupted his wand movements to push him into their bed, fearful of having to lift him in an injured or exhausted state should he collapse. </p>
<p>He begrudgingly complied and cast from a reclining position. His use of magic was always mesmerising—Hermione appreciated the fluidity of his wand as he progressed through what she knew must be an advanced spell, something she couldn’t identify by sight alone. She envied the breadth of his knowledge, that Tom would have studied a field like healing magic so deeply even though he hadn’t personally benefitted from it. Perhaps—perhaps she would be able to reach that point, she gleefully realised, now that her life would be dedicated to magic education and research.</p>
<p>Tom cast the diagnostic charm again, revealing a different set of runes. “It appears to have had an impact.” His brow furrowed slightly, wand tip flicking through the glowing results of his spell as he studied them. “I will need additional work to tailor something more specific to this injury, but... with enough experimentation, it... it should be possible to completely remove the curse contamination from the wound, at which point it could be treated like a normal scar.”</p>
<p>Hermione felt her cheeks glowing as she beamed and embraced Tom. That was the best possible news. “You are really healing,” she whispered into his neck.</p>
<p>“I am,” he admitted, but his expression stayed troubled. “However, I will probably continue to... look as I do.” His eyes were averted when she stared up into his face, avoiding her questioning glance.</p>
<p>“You mean, to look like a man who has practiced powerful magic? It has... changed you, I’m sure. You’re right that reducing your scarring and restoring your original hair color doesn’t completely recover the looks of your youth. But—you didn’t think I wanted to piece your soul back together so you could become Abraxas Malfoy, did you? So you would look like someone who rarely lifts his own wand?” She frowned at him.</p>
<p>She knew Tom would never admit to insecurity about something as supposedly trivial as his appearance, but Hermione was too observant to think that he didn’t care. She’d met his younger self, after all. How could any man who had looked that good as a teen not feel some level of insecurity as he aged? It didn’t help matters that Hermione had only grown into her appearance as she got older, learning how to groom and dress for herself such that her confidence was much higher in her mid-thirties than it had been at any time prior. </p>
<p>But, truly, Tom was barmy if he thought that it mattered to her. Hermione had committed to him fully when she decided to accept his multitude of sins, and her attraction to his mind and his power overrode any comparison between his looks and that of a man like Abraxas. She resolved to demonstrate her attraction more often, starting with a sweet, lingering kiss given to the still-unresponsive man. Tom sighed into her affections, pulling her closer and nuzzling his nose into her neck. She laughed as his short, shorn hair tickled her cheek, running her hand over his fuzzy head.</p>
<p>“I just wish I hadn’t lost all of my hair,” he groused.</p>
<p>“It’ll grow back!” Hermione protested. “The greys were a completely different texture, it makes sense that you would have to regrow everything.”</p>
<p>“I—I liked the greys. They were distinguished,” Tom admitted, and Hermione felt the cheek pressed against her shoulder heat slightly. She placed a smiling kiss on his temple.</p>
<p>“It figures that the one thing you enjoyed would disappear. My poor, precious Tom.” Hermione rarely teased him like this; he was sensitive about, well, having sensitivities. He deserved a bit of ribbing for the hair, though. “I could always make you a glamour to restore your grey hair, if you wanted.”</p>
<p>“No, no,” he insisted too quickly, “I should manage without. Once it’s grown back in, that is.”</p>
<p>“Of course, we couldn’t have you seen by anyone without your perfect waves,” Hermione teased one last time. She felt Tom nip at her collarbone in warning, and let him have his space. “I do think we should host an event as soon as you’re ready to show face. Something relatively small, we’ll have to fix up the main hall, just for the donors to celebrate the start of this venture. A few days of workshops and lectures, perhaps? And a nice party at the end. We might want to see about some guest accommodation, as well.”</p>
<p>He shifted so he could smirk down at her. “And you’re offering to play host?”</p>
<p>She scoffed back. “No more host than you. You would cede the guest list to my control? Anyway, I thought I might pull in Amandine, as Daniel has been surprisingly supportive of us, and she knows how to put together an intimate gathering.”</p>
<p>“I demand that you purchase new dress robes for this, Hermione,” Tom threatened lightly.</p>
<p>“Sure,” she grumbled, “but they will have trousers.”</p>
<p>“That’s sufficient for me. Perhaps I should wear traditional robes and go without trousers,” Tom’s teasing eyes lit up, “you represent modernity and forward thinking, and I represent respect for tradition and old magic.”</p>
<p>“Tom!” Hermione returned his teasing with a smile. “We would be quite the scandal.”</p>
<p>“You once wrote to me that you couldn’t help but be an ‘object of scandal,’ I believe you put it. It’s about time for me to wring some amusement out of that ability.”</p>
<p>And here, wrapped around her Tom, Hermione allowed herself to feel that possibility. To fully accept that in order to achieve something great, to have her accomplishments recognised, she would need to stir the pot. That having Tom supporting her, beside her, in such a public fashion, would be scary and might put off some people, but she was confident that he would he would always respect her striving. She’d never let herself just imagine a successful, influential future for their school: that had been Tom’s vision. Hermione had spent these months mired in logistics, scheduling, and other mundane necessities to bring the castle into living, working order. She was good and comfortable in that role, and of course, Tom would never have managed that work on his own. He would have had researchers lecturing in half-crumbled rooms—it would have just been ambiance to him, or similar rubbish. No, Hermione had kept her feet on the ground and her head well below the clouds, but—but Tom was healing, their ritual had worked, and she could begin to think in terms of years, maybe even decades, rather than months. To think about their future, their shared future, which he had committed to as much as she when he branded their unique green-scaled and gold-eyed snake on her hip.</p>
<p>It wasn’t a marriage. But, lord help her, it was close.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I promised to put Abraxas through a bit more awkwardness, and I fulfill my promises.</p>
<p>Thank you all for your continued readership, comments, and support. It means so much to me!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Academic Year ‘71–‘72</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Note the chapter title: we’re running through the first year of their university’s operation as we approach the end!</p><p>Thank you for your continued readership and support. It means the world!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b>August 1971</b>
</p><p>Amandine Rosier surveyed the decorated hall of Voldemort Castle with a critical eye. She’d chosen the decorations, after all, and she had to ensure that they were installed to her exacting specifications. Hermione was hardly a good judge of these things, and Di wouldn’t ever blindly trust her to throw a party, even when handed a thorough plan of the necessary arrangements.</p><p>“She did well, Di,” Hester Diggory reassured the strawberry blonde. “At least, she did well with everything you gave her. I assume she dressed herself.”</p><p>The two women took a moment to survey Hermione’s outfit, which was a suitably formal affair had she been a wizard, not a witch. She wore a beautifully-tailored black suit with her customary high neck, cut to match her partner’s traditional Wizarding robes. “Mi wears it well, Hester. It’s just—for this audience, you know? The Blacks are in attendance.”</p><p>Hester rolled her eyes at her old friend, as she had married out of a more traditional family, and Di had married into one. “The Blacks think it’s the 1870s. You’re right, of course, but she’s the Lady of this castle; if she wants to dress like a wizard for her parties, I suppose she can.”</p><p>Amandine sighed, tracing the stem of her wine glass with a manicured finger. “Lady Voldemort. What a peculiar name. Why use something French if you’re going to ignore the rules of pronunciation?”</p><p>“Well, we are English,” Hester offered. </p><p>“I will have you know that both the Fawleys and the Rosiers have French heritage!” Amandine hissed, defending her family lines.</p><p>“Of course,” the other witch soothed her friend. “Speaking of the Lady, where is the Lord? Have you seen him tonight?”</p><p>Di gestured subtly with her elbow, indicating a tall, dark presence near Abraxas Malfoy. “With his oldest friend, I believe. Had you spent time with him recently, before this?” Hester shook her head. “He looks... much better, these days. They visited Rosier Manor together last autumn and he was, well, distinguished but more aged-looking.” She took a sip of her drink. “This project must have been good to him.”</p><p>“Oh, Di, you know that Hermione worked in glamour charms for years. Don’t you think he’s putting it on for appearances? Goodness knows I might, if I were trying to woo more money out of these guests.” </p><p>“You wouldn’t need it, Hester, you’re as beautiful as the day of your wedding,” Amandine flattered her friend, who did actually look quite good despite the intervening decade. “Charms or not, he’s got a certain dignity to him with that dark hair. It’s wasted on a schoolmaster.”</p><p>“My brother did seem surprised that Lord Voldemort had gone into education and research. I had rather thought we might see him in a political position some day; that seems out of the question, now.” </p><p>Amandine side-eyed her friend, who had always had a bit of a flair for scheming. Di preferred a more social approach, but she’d married a Rosier and could recognise the game. She also knew that Daniel would have some cautionary words for her about exposing any of Lord Voldemort’s business, even to an old friend. “Mmm, I think the endeavor suits them both, and they are quite committed.”</p><p>“No marriage, though,” Hester stated.</p><p>“No marriage,” Amandine agreed. “They’re a handsome couple.” And really, that would have to do, because a split between Lord and Lady Voldemort might actually tear apart their world. They would find no other person more suited to this unconventional lifestyle.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>September 1971</b>
</p><p>“You’re not teaching the Patronus Charm?” Hermione looked up from his completed lesson plans for the year with a confused expression and worry in her brown eyes. “It’s a frequent topic on the NEWTs. When I evaluated the last decade of exams, roughly 60% had a question on the Patronus during the written portion or asked students to conjure one during the practical. You have...” Voldemort watched her scan his notes to find some suitable example for her argument, “...a lesson dedicated to reviewing jinxes from years 1–3, including the <i>Tickling Charm</i>.”</p><p>Voldemort rolled his eyes at her umbrage. “That is part of the review period, which I use as much for content as I do for setting expectations.”</p><p>She sniped back immediately, saying, “You’re avoiding my question about the Patronus Charm.”</p><p>He sighed. She knew why he was avoiding it; Hermione was an intelligent woman and could understand the unlikelihood of a person with his history conjuring a patronus. He was highly displeased that she seemed to make him want to say it.</p><p>“I can’t,” he grit out, never comfortable with his own shortcomings.</p><p>“I’ll do it for you,” she said quickly, too quickly, and he realised that he’d been had. Sure enough, she offered her condition: “I’ll do it for you if you promise to practice with me.”</p><p>“Hermione...” Voldemort warned, tone half caution and half unacknowledged fear. He refused to interpret the flash of emotion in her eyes, unable to accept anything approaching pity.</p><p>“Tom.” He felt her take his hand in her own smaller, softer one, and gave her a half-hearted squeeze. He was listening. He understood her position. But to try this, again, as an adult—and to fail—Hermione interrupted his thought. “We’ve got to know. If your soul is bound together again, it should be possible. You can’t hide from Light magic forever.” </p><p>“It’s not just the Light magic,” Voldemort found himself admitting. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Hermione, not after that. He could stomach having a grudge against a branch of magic: it would be foolish, really, but it fit his image. However, a patronus required happiness. If he couldn’t conjure one, was he not happy with Hermione? Would she be disappointed in him?</p><p>Voldemort had learned to love. That much was undeniable. But happiness and love were not the same thing, and he was too aware that his life had not primed him for happiness or joy. Could he learn these, too? Was that part of Hermione’s condition? </p><p>Before he could get control of his thoughts, Hermione was physically dragging him up and through the room, out to the courtyard. “Breathe, Tom,” he heard her urging. “Let’s just establish a baseline, no expectations. Just follow my lead.” </p><p>Hermione, precious Hermione, stepped behind him, wrapping one arm around his waist and taking his wand arm in her other. “I’m not a left-handed caster,” she apologised, “so this could be a little rough.” She guided them both through the motions a few times, feeling her way to fluency with his pale yew wand held firmly in their combined grasp.</p><p>“You know the incantation, but that’s the easy part. Just—clear your mind to start, and think about something positive. You won’t get a corporeal patronus with anything short of pure joy, but the charm should have some effect for any positive emotion.”</p><p>Voldemort cleared his head, a simple task for a master Occlumens. Positive emotion was more difficult. He thought about the day last autumn Hermione had held him after they discussed his political plotting, when he had felt contented and cared for. With the memory bright and hot in his mind, he nodded and cast.</p><p>“<i>Expecto Patronum</i>,” the incantation came out smoothly, and a burst of silver shot out of his wand, his yew wand that had seen so much magic, and filled the courtyard. He heard Hermione gasp behind him, felt her press her cheek to his arm so she could peer out at the light struggling to coalesce. It was overwhelmingly bright and completely amorphous, to his great disappointment. He angrily swatted his wand, dislodging her hand and cancelling the malformed spell in an instant.</p><p>Hermione spun him forcefully to face her, a mixture of awe and anger on her face. “Don’t you dare make this a failure, Tom.” She narrowed her eyes. “We know it could work, if you can evoke the right emotion. A year ago, it wouldn’t have worked at all. And—whatever it is, it’s going to be big. You never would be content with something normal, would you?” Her tone was insistent, and a little nagging, but her grin betrayed her joy. It came so easily to her.</p><p>“I promised; I’ll teach the charm to your class. But I want you to keep practising!” And with a kiss to his cheek, she was off, back into their home.</p><p>Well, she hadn’t said he needed to keep practising right now, and so Voldemort trudged after her.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>November 1971</b>
</p><p>“I am dying,” Tom plaintively moaned, his voice weak and quiet in the early morning hour.</p><p>Hermione, who had been awake and reading in bed, listening to his labored breathing to determine when he woke, rolled her eyes. “You have a cold, Tom. And horcruxes, so you can’t die.”</p><p>“I am death warmed over. Please revive me when I have passed. A copy of the ritual instructions are in your left-hand desk drawer.” The effect of his melodramatic speech was somewhat lessened by the congestion lacing his voice and by the way he clutched the blankets to his chest.</p><p>“I’m not even going to ask when you put that information in my desk. Love, do you think you can hang on for a little while without me? I’m going to grab a vial of Pepper-up and some broth from the kitchen.” She placed a soft kiss on his forehead; his temperature was slightly elevated, but nothing too extreme. Tucking the covers more securely around his shoulders and brushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes, she promised to return soon.</p><p>Tom wasn’t in the bed when she returned. She placed the potion and broth down on his end table and followed the trail of blankets across the room to find him curled into a ball on the floor in front of the hearth.</p><p>“Tom. You are on the floor.”</p><p>“Bed was too warm,” he defended himself weakly.</p><p>“You’re in front of a roaring fire,” she countered.</p><p>“Floor was too cold.”</p><p>Hermione sighed and rubbed her forehead. He should only need a day to recover, but lord would it be a long day if this was just the morning. “I’m levitating you back to bed, so don’t fight it. You’re going to drink your potion and your broth and try to get some rest; do not make me Imperius you.”</p><p>Even in his pathetic state, his chuckle was dark. “Please, dear, do try,” he goaded her, and if he hadn’t looked so sorry, lying in a heap of pyjamas and blankets on the floor, she might have. Instead, she put on her no-nonsense face and resettled him on the bed in a sitting position. He took the potion and the broth without issue, though he whined when she insisted on cleaning him up as his congestion loosened, attempting to bat her away and manage himself. She ignored his attempts.</p><p>Tom drifted in and out of sleep until the early afternoon, during which time Hermione contacted each of his students to cancel the evening’s class. She was handling paperwork for a research grant when he woke and asked her the time.</p><p>“It’s just past two, my sweet boy. And don’t even try to get out of bed—your students know class is cancelled tonight. Let the potion do its work.” She corralled her parchments, prepared to leave them should Tom need a distraction from his condition.</p><p>“I don’t understand how I got sick,” he groused. “I haven’t been sick for ages, even when the horcruxes were in full effect.”</p><p>She fixed with with a hard stare. “You teach, Tom. Students are disgusting little snotbags and they make you sick.”</p><p>“The student who attended my class when ill will forever regret that decision,” he vowed heatedly.</p><p>“Tom. You cannot exact revenge on your students for being sick. And anyway, you teach adults. I promise that first-years are much more repulsive.” He had no response for that except to groan pitifully and make a lame gesture for her to come sit with him, which she did, reading aloud from a book on her bedside table until he was lulled back to sleep.</p><p>Hermione woke him again at night for another meal and a bath, changing out the bedsheets as he ate at the desk. She thought he really looked healthy enough to bathe himself, but he turned his dark eyes on her and made a show of acting helpless with his shirt buttons until she acquiesced to washing him. Now that his strength was returning and his breathing was clearer, he seemed to enjoy being pampered, and it was sweet, if a bit unusual, for Tom to make a game of cajoling her into cuddling. He would wake up tomorrow, fully recovered, and pretend as though he had not dozed pitiably all day, and that was fine. Hermione would remember, and next time she fell sick, she would pay him back in kind.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>December 1971</b>
</p><p>Hermione frantically burst into Tom’s office, brandishing a piece of parchment insistently. “Minerva arrives in two hours, Tom! Two hours! Is the gold suite ready? Guillaume from housekeeping is missing and he was supposed to prepare the guest suites and I still need to go over your speech notes again before tonight and I can’t put her in a room that has no sheets!”</p><p>“Guillaume?” Tom’s head shot up and Hermione noticed that even her normally-unflappable partner was sporting slightly disheveled hair this morning. His eyes drifted out of focus as he seemed to do a mental inventory, finally arriving at an answer with a snap of his fingers. “Guillaume is in the main hall, arranging tables for the dinner tonight. I reassigned him and did the guest rooms by myself last night. Can you get me your edits before noon?”</p><p>Hermione felt her jaw fall open in disbelief, heard her scream rise from her throat, but did not anticipate sinking to her knees as her stress finally took her out. She had been running on fumes for a week, preparing for their first multi-day public lecture series, and the reassignment of poor Guillaume was one complication too many for her mind to handle. Minerva would just have to find her suite on her own, because Hermione was going to be sitting on the floor of Tom’s office until the new year, thank you all very much.</p><p>She felt more than saw Tom’s arms wrap around her as he joined her on the floor. His hugs had that peculiar quality of being slightly too strong, but not in the way of an enthusiastic, large man who didn’t recognise his strength, rather, like Tom hadn’t figured out he could unclench his muscles once he had made contact with the body being hugged. It was familiar, now, and therefore comforting. She let herself fall in the direction of his torso and rest.</p><p>“The planning is nearly done. I can handle the rest, Hermione. I can call in a staff researcher to receive our speakers and show them to their rooms. All you need to do is get yourself ready to make an appearance tonight. Can you do that, my sweet?” Tom was tracing patterns into her back, and she calmed herself by following them with her mind, anticipating the path of his fingers as they moved up her spine and over her shoulders. </p><p>When she was still unresponsive, contemplating whether she could get away with pretending to be an inanimate fixture of the room, Tom leaned down to press his lips to hers. His kiss was considerate and insistent, drawing her focus as her mind thawed in response to his soft, warm mouth. Hermione whimpered when she finally drew back, resting her forehead against his and looking into his deep blue eyes. </p><p>“Thank you, Tom. I really could use the help. I—I’m so anxious for this to be perfect, I know how important it is for us, for you... I just want everyone to see you speak and know what a force you are.”</p><p>He nuzzled her, rubbing their noses together reassuringly. “You do like to take on far too much responsibility. Accept the usefulness of delegation, Hermione. We’ll get through this.” Tom stood and helped her do the same, not releasing his hold until she was solidly on her own two feet and he had assured himself that her breathing was steady.</p><p>“Okay. Okay. I’ll just... go sit somewhere and let you get back to your work.”</p><p>“In the spirit of accepting delegation, my love,” Tom cooed much too innocently, “I do need your revisions on my speech by noon. Off with you, now.”</p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>January 1972</b>
</p><p>It was cold in the castle. Cold seeped up through the floors, blew in through the drafty windows, and radiated from every stone in the grey walls. </p><p>Hermione had worked to enchant the fireplaces in the most-important rooms: kitchen, the classroom serving as a library, and personal chambers for all the residents. If your office was too chilly in the morning, as Voldemort’s always was, tough luck. She had more pressing tasks than spending all of winter break on your comfort. Voldemort resigned himself to stoking a fire before breakfast in hopes that his office would be tolerable by mid-morning. He supposed that this would be the most difficult year, with the castle in the greatest state of disrepair, but he had rather expected that his days of living uncomfortably had passed. He shot another warming charm at his feet as he paced the decidedly not warm halls.</p><p>There—up ahead, the door he had been looking for. Pushing on the heavy, carved wood, he found himself in Hermione’s office. She looked up from her reading at his arrival. “Is it working, then?”</p><p>“I have to try the basement corridor still, and the fourth floor should wait until we restore the caved section of roof.” She made a note on a piece of parchment nearby.</p><p>“That’s quite an improvement over last week, though. Where did you come from this time?” She leaned to the side to peer around him, out the open door at his back. “Kitchen hallway! I think that’s the furthest we’ve ever seen.”</p><p>“I understand the fourth floor, once the renovations are done, but why do you need access from the basement? Who would be looking for you down there?” He and Hermione had set up diametrically-opposed charms for their office doors: his followed a person around the castle if Voldemort wished to speak to them, growing increasingly insistent if the person attempted to avoid the summons; hers appeared when a person wanted to find her, wherever the person was at the time. It turned out that the force of his will was enough to materialise a door even on an external wall, whereas crafting a charm to enable the castle to pick up on any occupant’s desire to speak with Hermione, and only when she was in her office, was trickier. He thought he might not reach the basement before Easter break. </p><p>“The basement levels are a little warmer, and I thought they might eventually make for good classroom and meeting spaces,” she offered absently.</p><p>“Not a potions lab?”</p><p>“Lord, no. There’s not enough ventilation. Did the NEWT-level class run after a first-year practical on Thursdays when you were a student? Half of us would nearly faint from the residual fumes when we walked into the lesson,” Hermione griped as she attempted to settle an errant curl behind her ear.</p><p>“It builds character,” Voldemort contested.</p><p>“Our students will have already built their character, Tom. Potions labs go on floors with openable windows only.” She fixed him with a look and he indifferently waved his concession. Anyway, meeting rooms were more his interest, and he rushed to claim responsibility for them. Her look softened to something more knowing and sentimental. “Are you going to create your own Come and Go Room?”</p><p>“Something like that,” he admitted, “but I thought to split some of the functionality. Why should our castle have only one adaptable meeting space? I want to have a few rooms that can change their furnishings as needed by the occupants, and I don’t want them to be secret—anyone should be able to meet in an appropriate space. I always hated that Hogwarts made it difficult for students to socialise outside of house common rooms. I do enjoy the Room of Hidden Things, but I think that can safely become a Cupboard of Hidden Things and kept as a secret for our residents to discover when necessary.”</p><p>“Oh, you have to seed the cupboard with a starter set of objects,” Hermione said decisively. “We’ll need some junk and broken things, of course, but there has to be something interesting to find, too. Should I try and enchant an item?”</p><p>He shrugged off her enthusiasm with a smirk. “Yes, well, enchanting the room will have to come first, I’m afraid. Perhaps that can be our summer project. Additionally, I was thinking of permitting our researchers-in-residence to add something to the castle’s enchantments, if they were interested.”</p><p>“Aren’t you worried about what they might do with that power?” Hermione’s brows drew together slightly in concern.</p><p>Voldemort shook his head, dismissing her concern. “Our wards should prevent anything truly harmful, and I have an eternity to live, so I thought some added mystery might be nice.”</p><p>“I swear, Tom, if I find a Class 5 magical creature in our basement—“</p><p>“Actually, I was thinking the basilisk might get lonely at Hogwarts, without any more Slytherin heirs to visit...” He was only half-goading her. He liked the basilisk. Hermione’s blank face did force him to soften a little, though. “It was just—just a thought, really. More of a 50-year plan. Not while Dumbledore is alive. But we have such a large plot of land, you know, and a dangerous forest is sort of tradition.”</p><p>She threw her hands up in impotent anger. “But a basilisk? Tom, how do you get a basilisk to Wales from Scotland? Even if you did, we’d be dragging petrified bodies out of the valley every year.”</p><p>“I do have a plan for that,” he bristled. “Forbid anyone entry to her hunting grounds. If anyone enters and dies, that’s really on their head.”</p><p>“Oh, yes, I see it now. ‘I apologise, Madame Prewett, your son did ignore our very clear warnings, yes, I know he was only 19, yes, I know basilisks are considered near-mythical in rarity, but we do have one on site and, well, he disregarded our signs. Best of luck with the funeral arrangements.’”</p><p>“I knew you would agree it was sensible,” he preened, flashing her his most dashing smile.</p><p>“Lord, Tom, let’s revisit this when Dumbledore croaks.” Hermione pretended not to be affected by his charm. He took his leave of her office while she was still in good spirits.</p><p>As a parting shot, he corrected her. “It’s Lord Voldemort, as you should know.”</p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>February 1972</b>
</p><p>The residents of Castle Voldemort largely shared meals around the thick wooden table that dominated the center of the kitchen. The kitchen was outfitted with modern appliances, a luxury in the Wizarding world, and the small kitchen staff proudly produced three hot meals a day. They could feed up to 40 people at night, when some of Voldemort’s NEWT students would arrive early for class. It was routine, now, for him and Hermione to greet others or engage in wider conversations during dinner; he had never expected to be so familiar with so many people.</p><p>That is, except for mid-morning on Saturdays. At 10am, the kitchen staff and any residents would clear out for an hour, and Hermione and Voldemort would enjoy a private late breakfast. </p><p>This morning found Hermione placing down a carton of eggs on the counter beside Voldemort. “I have a pitch for you.”</p><p>He looked up from juicing half of a lemon, tart liquid running between the fingers he had cupped to catch seeds. “Okay, pitch me,” he assented. “But you still have to toast the muffin halves.”</p><p>He watched her pout slightly as she pried apart the muffins and winced as one tore a bit too unevenly. She spoke once that task was complete. “So one of our long-term goals is to increase cultural acceptance of Dark magic, yes?” He nodded absently as he separated two yolks from their whites. “And we have this perfectly lovely library full of books that have been protected against theft and harm using Dark charms, plus some fascinating but surprisingly-approachable wards protecting our home. All this knowledge we gained to create a new magical home, just sitting around in our heads. Do you want this pot of water set to a boil yet?”</p><p>“Yes, throw it on the cooker, please.” He pulled aside four more eggs from the carton and sent it floating gently back to the far counter with a wave. “Crack these over a strainer, thank you. What are you planning for our research into household protection?” He set butter to melt on a hob charmed to be 65C exactly and began whisking the egg yolks, lemon juice, and salt in a large bowl as he waited.</p><p>“Well, let’s run a seminar on household magic. Something short, maybe just a weekend, and we pull in some related material from other sources. I was thinking we might cover the types of things that old pureblood families take as a given and never personally perform anymore, like setting up wards and protective charms, of course, but also perhaps some of what we’ve learned about construction and renovation, space expansion, and property maintenance. If you know anyone with interesting domestic charms around food preparation, cleaning, laundering, or similar, that would also be a good addition.” She looked over the cooker and swirled his pan of butter. “It’s melted, want me to pour for you?”</p><p>“Merlin, no, you ruined it by pouring too fast the last time. Give it here.” Voldemort took the pan of melted butter from her and began very, very slowly drizzling the warm fat into his egg yolk base, whisking quickly and consistently with his other hand. The temperature of the butter was only one part of making a stable hollandaise; the fat must also be added slowly enough to form an emulsion, something Hermione consistently failed to grasp. He focused on the task until all of the butter was added and the sauce was thick and rich, then tasted for salt, added more, and returned his attention to the conversation. “Lucretia Prewett—she’s a Black by birth, so her access to ancestral magic is unparalleled, but she married into a moderate pureblood family. Owl her and she’ll find something to discuss.”</p><p>Hermione put the finished hollandaise aside, near the plates holding their toasted muffins that were piled with smoked salmon. Just the poached eggs to go, then. He found the mesh strainer full of four cracked eggs waiting near the pot boiling merrily on the cooker. He stirred the water to create a vortex and dropped each egg in separately, watching the whites set in ghostly tendrils as they spun through the water. He felt more than saw Hermione ready their plates to receive the poached eggs behind him, concentrated as he was on these crucial few minutes of cooking. Soon enough, he’d plated the eggs, topped everything with hollandaise, and settled with Hermione into their usual seats at the heavy kitchen table.</p><p>“So,” she prodded as she sliced into a runny yolk, “you think the idea could work?”</p><p>“Yes, I do. It is... unconventional,” he admitted, “and much more domestic than I thought you might want to associate yourself with, but if you want to pursue the idea, you have my support.” He considered for a moment before offering, “We have a transfiguration weekend coming up at the start of next month, and you will be occupied with Minerva then, but perhaps in April? That would give us time to circulate event details among the more settled half-blood families.”</p><p>“Muggleborns, too,” Hermione insisted with a jab of her fork in his direction. “Anyone who has an interest.” He merely nodded; they had yet to be successful in reaching more than a handful of Muggleborns outside of magical academia with their lectures and seminars. They were, rightly, wary of the university’s association with old pureblood families, and Voldemort rather thought that their institution might need a decade to cement its position before Muggleborns and purebloods started mingling together.</p><p>Wiping his mouth, he tidied his place setting for Hermione to collect later. “Write it up and send me a copy this week. I’ll forward a formal request to Lucretia and a few others once that’s done. Who would have guessed that you would be the first to lecture about Dark magic?”</p><p>“You never did have much foresight, love,” she joked as she stacked their dishes. He gave her a cursory glare, just to register the expected level of dissatisfaction, before catching her around the waist and settling her into his lap. He pulled her close, burying one hand in her hair, and placed a lingering kiss on her lips. She sighed into his embrace and nuzzled his cheek affectionately. “Thank you for another lovely breakfast, Tom,” she murmured into his neck, and he held her to his chest for as long as she would allow before she pulled away to clean up.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>March 1972</b>
</p><p>Hermione was in an agitated state, pacing restlessly in front of Voldemort’s office desk. He had offered her a seat and tea when she arrived, but she insisted that she was fine and wouldn’t stay for long and so of course she had been here for half an hour, pacing and shooting him dark glances as he attempted to provide feedback on student essays.</p><p>Finally fed up, he started to speak. “What is—“</p><p>“Avery!” she screeched, arms spread wide in a gesture of frustration. “Zelina has been useless since the start of the term. You talked me into an apprentice, Tom,” she said accusingly. “She was fine in the fall term but this is untenable! If she can’t manage to close a contract by the end of April, I’m dropping her.”</p><p>He resigned himself to the conversation and stored his parchments and quill. “Hermione, you know as well as I do that you can’t terminate her apprenticeship within the year. She’s due at least one progress report and possibly a performance improvement plan. Even so, you’d be putting a black mark on her record if you release her from her apprenticeship.”</p><p>“She’s not working out, Tom,” Hermione’s tone was hard. “I can’t just stick her on teaching duties to get rid of her, because we don’t have introductory charms courses. Zelina is floundering in her caseload. I feel as though I’ve taught her the fundamentals of creating a custom glamour half a dozen times, and I’ve only given her cases of scarring from creatures, and yet she still hasn’t managed better than a modification to better match skin tone. Her work is sloppy; you can still see uneven texture through her charms. She doesn’t want it enough to work for it, Tom.”</p><p>Voldemort hadn’t wanted to invoke her promise, but seeing no other option, he launched into it. “You committed to making nice with the purebloods, Hermione. How do you think it will go with the Averys and all of their friends if you unceremoniously dump their daughter?”</p><p>She glared at him but remained silent, which was the opening he needed to push further. “Zelina Avery was nearly betrothed to Rabastan Lestrange over the winter holidays, were you aware? Yes, of course, you would have heard at the Malfoy party. The betrothal contract fell through, their fathers couldn’t agree on the terms, but if Rabastan had taken Zelina as his wife, he would hardly have allowed her to continue an apprenticeship where she lived outside of the manor. The Lestranges are decidedly... possessive like that.” Hermione gestured impatiently, urging him on to his point. “Don’t you think this might be weighing on her right now? Her father will hardly be put off for long by one unsuccessful attempt. She’s living with a great deal of uncertainty, and that may drive her to distraction.”</p><p>“How is that my issue, though?” Hermione asked callously.</p><p>“You are her mentor!” Voldemort was shocked. “Do try to be considerate of her circumstances. Aren’t you always on my case about empathy for others?”</p><p>“She could just not marry yet. She’s, what, 21? Plenty of time to marry after she completes her mastery.”</p><p>“Hermione, darling,” he soothed, “she is a pureblood heiress from a traditional family. The choice to pursue a mastery already makes her rebellious. Her family will want her married before she attempts anything as radical as having a career.”</p><p>“I can’t support any of that! You cannot expect me to tolerate substandard performance because she’s upset about the expectations that come with being wealthy and pureblooded. I’ve worked so hard, Tom, to get any amount of recognition in this world, and I will not roll over for my apprentices just because they come from a ‘better family’ than I do.” Hermione’s short curls were adorably agitated, standing out from her head so that she looked like a bit of cotton wool. He would <i>not</i> smile.</p><p>“Don’t tolerate it. Put her on a performance improvement plan, demand more regular communication, require her to be honest about her limits and current situation. However, you cannot also act as though it is reasonable to oust a young woman because stress about her personal life is interfering with your research agenda. It would reflect poorly on you and on our university, which I care about, and it would make you seem unempathetic, which you should care about.” Really, it was such simple calculus, in his mind. He was surprised she let her academic frustration cloud her judgment so thoroughly. “We are two people of lower birth living in sin, Hermione, and cannot afford this type of scandal right now. Play nice with the purebloods, as you promised, and if Zelina is unhappy with your expectations for an apprentice, she can always opt for a marriage contract and leave with her dignity intact.”</p><p>“Fine.” Hermione huffed her grudging acceptance.</p><p>Now, Voldemort did allow himself to smile. “You would have been an absolute menace as a Hogwarts student. Who knew that you were so quick to abandon your higher principles over academic matters?”</p><p>She balked. “I never killed a fellow student!”</p><p>“Ah, but that was more of a... happy accident. I am beginning to believe that Dumbledore might have been correct to think you a troublemaker.”</p><p>She screamed as she left the office, and Voldemort hummed to himself in pleasure as he returned to his marking.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>May 1972</b>
</p><p>Hermione curled into Voldemort’s side, her sweat and skin mingling with his own in a sticky and pleasant mess. He ran his hand down her bare back, easing them both into a state of calm as they came down from their high. Her delightful short curls tickled the underside of his arm as he moved and he brought his other hand up to wrap them around his fingers, just as she threw a leg over his middle and cupped his hip with the juncture of her thigh and body so that they were thoroughly entwined. He watched the green-and-gold snake dance along her hip fondly.</p><p>She spoke so that her lips brushed the side of his chest, not far above the much-healed curse scar. “We should hold another event this summer like the donor’s ball last August, but much larger. I want to invite a thousand people.”</p><p>The number took his breath away. “A thousand attendees—that would be the biggest social event of the decade. We could extend the main hall and the surrounding rooms for an evening. Do you know a thousand people to invite? We would need to hire catering.”</p><p>“Lord, you sound like me!” Hermione giggled into his side, her breath fanning across his ribs. “Last summer’s party was about proclaiming that we were serious. This summer, I want to project that we have arrived. We aren’t going away. I can ask Hester to help manage the logistics and guest list; her parties are enormous. She must have someone to help manage that. You and I can plan the workshops in the week before the main event, which will have many fewer attendees. I want to invite all of the Hogwarts professors to demonstrate that our institutions aren’t competing.”</p><p>Voldemort grumbled and shifted his hold on Hermione. “Even the old man?”</p><p>“Especially Dumbledore. He hasn’t done research in decades! I want to ask him to give a talk on the uses of dragon blood, which will look to our audience like the type of courtesy one extends to an irrelevant emeritus.” He could hear the acid edge in her voice. It was a clever plan—he could hardly turn down an invitation of this magnitude if all of his employees signed on, and he wouldn’t precisely be interested in discussing his other great achievement, the defeat of Grindelwald. It could work.</p><p>“I’ll agree, but we need to build some fee structure into the event. I won’t allow you to put off my practice room for another year.” Lestrange, surprisingly, had come through with a donation earmarked for that purpose, with the stipulation that Voldemort allow his sons to come and practice dueling regularly. He would take joy in reducing the boys to their component parts as their father paid for the privilege.</p><p>She soothed him by rubbing circles into his chest, her fingers catching in his scant hair. “I promise, this year, love. We have enough for your practice room and another residential wing and the first part of the library. This could be just the thing we need to finish off the fourth floor. We might even be able to get the Minister to show. She’s trying to strike a more moderate position after the protests, you know? I can barely believe that we are a politically neutral entity.”</p><p>“In another decade, my sweet,” Voldemort promised, “we will have sway in all of our political bodies. Whatever we want will be possible.” He allowed himself a moment to imagine this future. “I will block any attempt to limit magical practice. Perhaps I should start courting our politically-minded graduates: they can serve as my eyes and ears in the Ministry. Is—is it strange for me to say that I don’t have a particular platform, so long as we are left to operate unhindered?” He would never have anticipated this eventuality, but now that the university was settling into routine, the prospect of micromanaging the creation of laws seemed like a mundane distraction from his main interest. </p><p>The university was still new, but it had genuine promise. His original group of followers had started to come around to the project, now that they were regularly attending events hosted here, and a small number of the families were even represented in the ranks of their researchers and students. Moreover, other prominent Wizarding families had joined as patrons, families such as the Prewetts or the Shacklebolts who he would never have attempted to recruit before, despite their pureblood status. The researchers they were supporting had published some work already, and more publications were on the horizon; Hermione was receiving proposals from researchers across Europe now. Whatever else developed over the next decade, they had inarguably created a respectable academic institution that could survive the occasional mistake. They were not done with the difficult work of establishing their foundation in Wizarding Britain, but they were far away from the teetering uncertainty of a year past.</p><p>“I don’t think it’s strange at all,” Hermione’s voice broke through his thoughts. “I think... it means that we’re safe. That we aren’t political insurgents or revolutionaries fighting for our lives. We’re—we will be accepted, even venerated. Why fuss with daily politics when you’re aiming to push the boundaries of magic for eternity?” </p><p>Voldemort drew her up and across his chest, settling her body on top of his own and embracing her to hold her in place. He pulled her head down for a long, languid kiss, all warm lips and soft mouths and just the most tentative and gentle use of tongue, until she relaxed fully into him. “We will be more than Merlin himself, Hermione.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. All the Time in the World</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The castle looked fantastic, hosting a ball. </p><p>Their main hall was magically decorated and expanded. Hermione had worked with professional planners to get it ready for tonight, and the effort had been completely justified. Guests kept stopping Voldemort to tell him how lovely his home was, or how much they enjoyed his event, or just to compliment the university he and Hermione had built. People he had never met before sought him out by sight to offer congratulations. It was exceedingly gratifying.</p><p>Voldemort had been pleasantly surveying his domain when he felt someone small and <i>very</i> brave collide with him. “Dumbledore is coming here now,” Hermione hissed in his ear under the guise of straightening his collar.</p><p>Ah. That damned vulture had been bound to swoop in eventually. “We had better make an impression, then, love,” he responded by murmuring into her hair. </p><p>He turned them both sharply toward the old professor, his arm draped comfortably around his little troublemaker as he kept his cool gaze on the silver-haired menace that was approaching. The man hadn’t dared to speak with either of them all week, despite being an honored guest at the summit, and it would be just like the professor to corner them at the height of the ball, when hundreds of guests were around to watch their interaction. Honestly, as if Voldemort would bother dueling him, when activating just one of their wards could eviscerate anyone of his choosing. Hermione, the darling, had actually set up that ward. </p><p>With that thought, he plastered a blatantly insincere grin on his face and welcomed the man of the hour. “Professor Dumbledore, we are honored that you and your faculty could help us celebrate our first year. It has been so long.”</p><p>“Tom,” the bespectacled lump of fuchsia robes crowed, as if he was capable of genuine regard for another person. “What an admirable effort you have made. Why, I never would have guessed that the precocious boy who applied to be a Defense professor at 18 would end up creating his own school!” His heartless blue eyes and grotesque smile slid from Voldemort to the fourth member of the conversation, Minerva McGonagall, who had appeared sometime after the initial greeting. “Minerva, you may not know, but Tom here thought himself ready to teach right after he graduated!” The wretch laughed as he violated employment confidentiality law.</p><p>Hermione went for the neck before he could respond. “Yes, well, some mistakes made in our young adulthood can have lifelong impacts on us, wouldn’t you agree, professor?” Voldemort’s smile, which had been threatening to slip after any amount of time in the presence of Dumbledore, returned to full malicious wattage. “Tom and I both have been so interested in research and education for such a long time, of course, but no opportunity felt right for us until we decided to create our own. And what a fulfilling year it has been! Min, this is, what, your third lecture? Have you found the audiences as engaging as I hope?”</p><p>Minerva, a look of consternation on her face, responded in that terse way that seemed so inherent to her. “They have been very pleasant excursions, Hermione. Thank you for your continued invitations.”</p><p>“Anytime, Minnie,” Hermione replied earnestly with a glancing touch on the other woman’s arm. Voldemort hadn’t quite warmed to the woman, nor she to him, but he could appreciate anything that drew a contrast between the normal way guests were received and the treatment that the elderly meddler had earned. “We would love you back for something this autumn—I’ll owl the details.” Minerva offered a strained smile, clearly uncomfortable being used as an example in front of her employer.</p><p>Too bad, really, because Voldemort wasn’t finished. “Are you certain that we cannot tempt you into a sabbatical, Minerva? The Prewetts committed to supporting a named position after your presentation yesterday. Surely you could use a break from being Head of Gryffindor to enjoy your research.” To his immense satisfaction, Minerva blushed in pleased embarrassment from the praise.</p><p>The bag of bones masquerading as a person couldn’t handle even a few minutes without attempting to control a situation, however, and objected to the offer. “I am afraid that Minerva is much too essential to Hogwarts to lose for even a single term, as you must remember, Hermione. It was such an adjustment to recover from your abrupt departure some five years ago, my dear.”</p><p>Voldemort took point to defend his Hermione, as she did for him. “Oh, I insist on shouldering the blame for that, Albus. I’m afraid that I rather strongly suggested she should play to her strengths, as her research was much too compelling to play second fiddle to her teaching responsibilities. She maintains a different balance now that she has a choice, don’t you, love?”</p><p>Even as Hermione nodded her agreement and opened her mouth to respond, the old fool’s ice blue eyes narrowed with his last word, in a gesture that only he witnessed. Voldemort couldn’t suppress his startled laugh, low and frantic and entirely inappropriate for the type of conversation he had planned, but this festering pit of a man had always brought out his worst attributes. </p><p>“Salazar, you don’t still believe me incapable of love, do you?” Minerva looked stunned, and though Hermione managed to keep her features schooled into a neutral expression, she had paled. “You do! Albus, it was bad enough when you persisted in this foolishness throughout my childhood.” Oh, good—Minerva seemed appalled. “But to come to my home and make such callous assumptions about me, when Hermione and I have so generously hosted you... I can tolerate the insult to my person, as I’m quite accustomed to receiving this one from you, but I will not stand for the insult to my partner.”</p><p>“Albus, Minerva, I do apologise, but I think it’s time that we circulate to other guests,” Hermione cut in sharply, her grip on his arm steady and cautionary. “Min, I will try to catch you tomorrow morning before you leave. It has been... an experience, seeing you again, Albus, but forgive me if I suggest that this may be our last invitation.” The fuchsia twit may have said something further, made some attempt at saving the conversation or ending it gracefully, but Voldemort was beyond caring. </p><p>He let himself be led from the main hall out onto the terrace overlooking their garden, the scene reminiscent of one so many years past when Hermione still wore gowns and he still could not contemplate the use for her as anything but a casual fling. Merlin, that was three horcruxes and eleven years ago. </p><p>“It seems we’re destined to run off to someplace private even at our own parties, my dear,” Voldemort said with some amusement. Hermione responded with a playful scowl, but gave up quickly in favor of leaning into his side to look out over the grounds.</p><p>“How are you feeling, Tom?” Her voice was concerned but sure.</p><p>“Annoyed, obviously,” he offered. “I suppose that I knew this would happen, I just... did not realise the conversation would fall apart so fast.” Voldemort looked down at her, letting some sincerity bleed into his expression as he spoke his next words. “I am sorry if your relationship with Minerva is strained as a result of tonight.”</p><p>She brushed off his worry, saying, “The two of us have endured other upsets over Albus and you. If this is the one that does us in, I will be disappointed but not surprised.” He felt her forehead press into his chest and squeezed her closer in response. “I was worried about you. The last time someone insulted you—and me—at a party...”</p><p>He didn’t need to hear the words to know how her sentence would end. Voldemort considered her sentiment—true, nearly two years ago now, he had lost his temper in one of Diggory Manor’s social parlors and rightly scared the daylights out of Hermione. The insult still sang through his mind: <i>mudblood</i>, they called her. Was that more or less insulting than the insinuation that he could not properly care for his partner? </p><p>With a shrug, he thought that it didn’t really matter which was more insulting, because he no longer had to grin and bear either. No, he was Lord of his own castle, his own university, now. Not only could he bar someone from his home and have it be a meaningful punishment, people also took pains not to insult him or Hermione because of their status. He mattered, he had power, and he didn’t need to feel angry when he could use social dynamics to right the wrong.</p><p>He... wasn’t angry. He said as much to Hermione.</p><p>She turned shining eyes up to him, joy and relief on her face, and he was sad that she had been afraid of his reaction, sad that she didn’t know he had long since moved beyond that sort of outburst. Voldemort was respected and powerful and loved and had purpose. He was—was he happy?</p><p>He knew one way to find out.</p><p>Thoughts of his empire swirled in his mind: his university, his recognition, the admiration of so many important families and not just the Slytherin purebloods. They were strung together with moments of Hermione smiling, holding him, loving him, as the two of them worked for their shared goals. He whispered the incantation, blind to the look of dawning realisation on his companion’s face. They watched as silver mist swirled out from their position, twisting and melding until it formed into the large and undeniably corporeal shape of a basilisk. </p><p>“Bloody hell, Tom,” Hermione whispered harshly. “You couldn’t be average at just one thing?”</p><p>The spectral basilisk, perhaps attracted by her noise, slithered forward to nose at Hermione like a curious puppy. Were these things sentient? He had never really considered the issue before. It was... fascinating magic, actually. His patronus <i>should</i> recognise Hermione as important. </p><p>She continued speaking to fill his stunned silence. “At least it’s friendly?” The basilisk blinked as if in agreement. “And... can’t petrify me. That’s good, too.”</p><p>“She,” he corrected thoughtlessly.</p><p>Hermione looked confused. “She?”</p><p>“The, er—she’s female. She’s the one at Hogwarts; same pattern on her nose scales.” He hadn’t seen her for 30 years, but he would never forget the appearance of his basilisk. He reached out for her, to stroke her under the chin like she had always loved, and though his fingers passed through her ghostly form, she leaned into the suggestion of touch just the same. “She is beautiful, isn’t she?”</p><p>Hermione took his other hand between her own. “Yes, Tom, she is.” They watched his patronus slither and preen for long minutes, clearly enjoying her admirers’ attention. He didn’t want to dispel her; it seemed like such a waste to cancel this magic, to wish it out of existence again so soon when it was an incredible testament to his strength and heritage. He doubted whether many of his ancestors were even capable of such a thing, and they were surely the only magical family who would be represented by this incredible beast. </p><p>“You will see her again, love,” Hermione predicted the direction of his thoughts. “You managed this once and you will do it again.” Voldemort grumbled under his breath a little, still not able to bring himself to say goodbye to her—to this manifestation of himself—quite yet. “A patronus can carry a message, you know,” Hermione suggested. He raised an eyebrow in her direction, though did not look away from his gamboling serpent, who was no longer constraining herself to the ground. Apparently not satisfied with this response, she continued: “You could put her to use, if you want. Use her to carry a message to someone inside. It would be... very public, but a patronus is hardly considered controversial magic, even if its form is—is suggestive. You could—oh! You could give Abraxas a real scare. I’m sure he’s surrounded by all sorts of interesting people.”</p><p>The spark of understanding lit within him, and Voldemort curved his mouth into a smirk that would do his teenage self proud. “My dear, I believe you are correct. Abraxas has likely had few occasions to communicate with a patronus before, let alone one of such magnificence. What should I tell him?”</p><p>“You have to say something that will make him look good,” she strategised. “Because every guest in that hall will be watching the 50-foot snake as soon as she enters, and Abraxas would not appreciate it if you don’t use the opportunity to promote him.”</p><p>“Serpent, please; snake makes her sound so pedestrian. She is the King of Serpents,” Voldemort corrected. “We could congratulate him on the successful first year of his scholarship program. The graduates conducted themselves admirably on their NEWTs and have all landed well-placed jobs following their internships. It might also incentivise other families to endow scholarships.”</p><p>“Oh, you clever devil! Praise Malfoy and raise more galleons in one move. It might also annoy Albus, if he’s still around, that there is a thriving NEWT program outside of the Hogwarts system.” Hermione returned her focus to the phantom basilisk, who had been scenting the rose bushes with her tongue, and hissed in parseltongue. “<i>Would you like to make a grand entrance, pretty girl?</i>” The mute serpent pushed herself over to Voldemort expectantly and waited as he conveyed the message and its destination.</p><p>“Tom, can you get us up to the window, there?” Hermione gestured to a glazed window overlooking the main hall that started a few metres off the ground, where they could peer in without revealing themselves. He nodded and swept her into his arms, hands behind her knees and back, flying carefully to hover only high enough to overlook the mass of guests through the wavy window panes.</p><p>His patronus, meanwhile, slid into the hall through the open exterior door. As she entered the crowded space, conversation began to slow and die when people observed the enormous beast in their midst. She slithered between guests nimbly for a creature of her size, though she could have passed through them without issue. Someone jumped out of her way with a shout, finally drawing the full room’s attention to her presence as she made a sure path toward the silver-blonde hair of the Malfoy patriarch.</p><p>“Did he just—” </p><p>“Yeah, I think Abraxas actually flinched! Boost us higher, Tom.”</p><p>“Stop wiggling so much. Oh!” Hermione nearly kneed Voldemort in the face when his voice rang out from the serpent in the hall. “She’s louder than I expected.”</p><p>“I’ll say. That’s on you. I think Abraxas might actually faint. Is she scenting him?” She tilted in his arms to grasp the stone wall of the castle and press her face to the glass.</p><p>Voldemort scoffed and pulled her back. “You’ll get a smudge on our windows, and I’m not coming back out to clean it. What’s happening now? Your hair is blocking half my view.”</p><p>“Dumbledore looks pissed off! Look, there,” she jabbed a finger on the pane, and he leaned over her to squint through the glass. The nuisance did have an unusual expression on his face, caught somewhere between vindication and despair, which was a strange combination. He was probably realising that Voldemort had indeed been Slytherin’s Heir, and that a patronus would guarantee no one ever believed him capable of murder. Good. </p><p>Hermione continued her commentary and he braced himself against the stone to keep a secure hold on her as he watched along. “Your basilisk is done speaking, but she’s—is she showing off? Did you tell her to do that? I think Nott is concerned he might be petrified if he looks at her directly, see how he’s averting his eyes? What an idiot. Oh, she’s on the move again! She’s heading for our tower, I think she’s going to dissipate in private. Tom, oh, our guests are going to think she’s still around! They’re going to be looking out for an ethereal basilisk all night!”</p><p>Voldemort started to laugh, and Hermione giggled in his arms, grabbing him around the neck to keep from falling. He drifted lower, slowly reaching solid ground, and let her legs drop so she could stand again. She remained leaning into him. As the band inside resumed their playing, he began to sway with her in a slow, comfortable dance. Hermione’s head dropped to his chest and he rested his cheek on her hair as they let the music and the noise of their event wash over them.</p><p>“We have to do this every year now, you know,” Hermione’s voice drifted into the empty night.</p><p>“Terrorise our guests?” Voldemort jested. “I agree.”</p><p>He could feel her small sigh, but she didn’t rise to the level of a real objection. “Despite the confrontation with Dumbledore, I think we pulled this off.”</p><p>“That old goat was always going to be an issue. That we managed to neutralise him without him drawing in any other spectators should be counted as a victory.” He ran his hands up and down her back reassuringly, keeping her tightly pressed against himself. She hummed into his breast and he kissed her hair in response, rubbing his nose against her curls. “I don’t want to go back inside,” he admitted in a low voice. “People will try to talk to us.”</p><p>“Let’s stay out here, my love,” she agreed. “They’re not entitled to us any longer, tonight.”</p><p>He gently drew back and placed a hand on her cheek, directing her to look up at him. “They’re never entitled to us,” Voldemort insisted, and he pressed his forehead to hers. “I don’t care what precedent we set this year. We can always change it. If any part of this ever stops benefitting us, or stops being fulfilling, we stop. You and I will not live for others’ approval.” He brought his mouth down to hers, kissing her deeply, his hands on her back and her cheek as though he could press her into his being and meld them into one. She surged upward, carding a hand through his hair and opening her mouth to him briefly, just long enough to taste, before separating again.</p><p>“We will get there, Tom. Not this year, not next year. But I agree that the day will arrive that we are self-sustaining. Be patient, sweetness. You have all the time in the world.” </p><p>“You should know that I won’t rest until you do, too, Hermione,” he pledged. “If—if you don’t already. The ritual—” </p><p>But she cut him off with another kiss. “I do know, Tom. I know. You should know I won’t hurt another person to achieve it.”</p><p>“I do know,” Voldemort echoed, “And I love you enough to honor that.” He hugged her close. “Anyway, if you tried to make a horcrux, your soul would probably heal itself again instantly.” She feigned indignation from where her head was buried into his chest and he laughed, a deep, contented laugh that carried through the warm summer night.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>C’est fini. </p><p>Thank you, so much, for reading through the entirety of my story. Writing this has been a wonderful experience for me, and I have grown to love Tom and Hermione so very much in the process. I’m sad to see these two go, but I’m happy to have gotten to write this midlife version of them.</p><p>I want to offer special thanks to everyone who I’ve interacted with in writing this. Your comments have been so kind! </p><p>This won’t be the last time I write either Tom or Hermione, but I’ll never forget my first. ❤️ </p><p>Yours,<br/>Tomato</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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